Contemporary Music Review

Vol. 24, No. 2/3, April/June 2005, pp. 121 – 135

The Revolution of Complex Sounds

Tristan Murail (translated by Joshua Cody)

The most sudden and important revolution to affect the musical world during the
recent past was based not on some type of reflection upon musical grammar (serial or
other), but rather—more deeply—upon the world of sounds themselves: in other
words, in the sonic universe that summons the composer. For any composer
reflecting upon his place in music’s evolution, this unprecedented opening of the
world of sounds that we now recognize cannot fail to make itself felt in the
compositional technique itself. More precisely: any attempt to integrate these new
sounds that are above all, as we shall see, sounds of a ‘complex’ character, necessitates
a profound revision of traditional compositional techniques (by ‘traditional’ I
include serialism, aleatoric composition, stochastic composition, etc.: techniques that
continue to use antiquated grids of parameters) and of our very conception of the
compositional act.

A New World of Sounds

We have witnessed, in fact, a double evolution in the world of sounds. On the
one hand, our tools for analysing sound have advanced considerably (spectro-
grams, sonograms, digital recording, etc.), as have theoretical reflections based in
observation. On the other, the material of sound itself is constantly being
enriched, a process whose culmination has not yet even entered our field of
vision.
The enrichment of musical material is not, in fact, new. It occurred slowly over the
entire course of the 20th century, first with the development of percussion
instruments, then with the appearance of electronic instruments (of which the first
essays take us back to the beginning of the century, with Thaddeus Cahill’s
‘Telharmonium’, an instrument several tons in weight that required a telephone for
operation; but by 1928 we already had a more practical instrument, the ondes
Martenot, which is for that matter still used today). But it is after World War II, of
course, that the domain of electronic music begins developing rapidly, starting with
work on analogue tape in the classical studios and ending with the computer, passing
along the way through synthesizers, and miniaturized studios that allow the creation
of live electronics.

ISSN 0749-4467 (print)/ISSN 1477-2256 (online) ª 2005 Taylor & Francis

DOI: 10.1080/07494460500154780
122 Tristan Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)
Along with the birth of new instruments, instrumental technique also renewed
itself, giving the composer an entire category of sounds with previously unimagined
characteristics—sounds that fall between two categories, paradoxical sounds, unstable
sounds, complex sonorities that defy the traditional classification of harmony and
timbre completely, inhabiting the unclaimed territory between them.
The new analytic tools I mentioned above allow us, at the same time, to bring a
different perspective to sounds, to journey to the interior of sounds, to observe their
internal structures. In this way, we immediately discover that a sound is not a stable
and self-identical entity, as traditional notation might have us believe.1 Our entire
musical tradition assumes a direct correspondence between the symbol and the thing.
But sound is essentially variable—in the sense, of course, that a sound can never be
repeated exactly, but variable also within its own unique lifespan. Rather than
describe a sound by describing its ‘parameters’ (timbre, register, volume, duration), it
is more realistic, more in keeping with physical reality and perception, to consider a
sound as a field of forces, each force pursuing its own particular evolution. Such an
approach empowers us to work more precisely upon sounds, to perfect instrumental
techniques in the context of an understanding of sonic phenomena. It allows us also
to develop a compositional technique based on the analysis of sounds, and to make of
their internal forces a starting point for the composer’s task.
But the revolution of the world of sounds also took place within us. In effect, we
are participating in a large-scale reappraisal of traditional listening. I perceive a
double influence of electroacoustic music and non-western musics, which have
enabled us to discover a different sense of time; they have led us to alternative
methods of orienting ourselves to duration; through them, we are now attentive to
phenomena previously considered secondary: microfluctuations of many kinds,
sound colours, the production of sound, etc.
Fans of rock music provide a good example of this ‘other listening’. For us (‘serious’
musicians), all rock is terribly alike and monotonous (4/4 time, electric guitars,
pentatonic melodies, E minor—because it is easier for the guitarists—etc.). For rock
listeners, however, there is no doubt about identity of the band or the song, after hearing
only a few seconds. What they are hearing is not what we hear: they listen to the sound
before anything else; they see the differences and subtleties that will go unnoticed by the
musically educated—and thus compartmentalized and conditioned—ear.
Despite this outpouring of new methods, of new concepts—or perhaps because of
them—we are currently witnessing many composers performing a kind of turning
backwards, a reversion to a maternal embrace, to a collective refusal of instrumental
innovations, a refusal even of serialism or postserialism; a return, finally, to
techniques dating to the period between the wars. Fear of the unknown, lack of
imagination, or balking in front of the immensity of the task? This path is often
disguised as a virtue, under noble pretexts: the return to ‘expression’, to ‘simplicity’,
to ‘harmonic’ (sic) music. Like all forms of neoclassicism, like all examples of ‘retro’
styles, it is fundamentally sterile. The unlimited promise of electroacoustic music was
doubtlessly deceptive: but this is not a reason to spurn its gifts, no more than an
 Contemporary Music Review 123
eschewal of Asian music is justified simply because its message is disfigured by
‘oriental’ muzak in a supermarket. In truth, what have been missing are concepts
permitting us to organize the new reality that, whether we like it or not, faces us. If we
do not find them, others will; they are not waiting around for their turn. The
spectacular development of synthesizers, of electronic sound, owes considerably more
to Pink Floyd than to Stockhausen.

The Broader Influence of Electroacoustic Music

It was inevitable that the development of electroacoustic techniques, and of our
understanding of acoustics, would affect traditional compositional techniques.
Indeed, electronic music produced a more or less deliberate proliferation of
instrumental and orchestral music, which as a result proposed new schemes, new
forms, new ideas as far as the use and combination of instruments, etc. It is obvious
that we would not have Ligeti’s Atmosphères without the development of tape music.
In effect, electricity provided for the first time sounds of infinite duration, stable
masses of sound, continuums.2
Composers naturally sought to create these electronic continuums within the
orchestra. It was in this way that they began to think in terms of masses, rather than
lines, points and counterpoint. The true musical revolution of the 20th century lies
here, in the fluctuation between abstract concept and aural perception that permits
access into the depth of sounds, that allows us truly to sculpt sonic material, rather
than piling up bricks or layers. One might speak of an opposition between the
traditional compositional practice of amassing and compounding elements
advocated by harmony and composition textbooks, and another method I designate
as synthetic: the sculpting of music, as a sculptor moulds marble, gradually revealing
manifold details from a global approach.
I will mention just one more of many other fundamental contributions of
electroacoustic music: the very essential idea that the musical ‘atom’ is not the
notehead written on staff paper. The musical atom is the perceptual atom, tantamount,
perhaps, to Pierre Schaeffer’s ‘sonic object’. It is possible as well that there is no
perceptual atom, that music is indivisible, that we perceive only flux (to borrow an
image from theories interpreting light in terms of waves, rather than particles).
An orchestral piece I wrote in 1974, Sables, could serve as an illustration of this
idea. The music of Sables is a music made from masses of sound, where individual
notes are nothing more than grains of sand, bereft of significance, but whose
accumulation furnishes the music with both its form and its content, just as grains of
sand supply a dune both shape and substance.

Properties of the New Materials

The new materials that offer themselves to the composer have some common
properties, whether they originate in instrumental or electronic music. These are
124 Tristan Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)
often complex sounds, intermediate sounds, hybrids, sounds that possess new
dimensions (transitions, development over time), sounds that are neither harmonic
complexes nor timbres but something between the two. Conjointly, there is a general
abolition of limits: acoustic analysis and even simple observation show us that there is
no precise line between pitch and noise, rhythm and frequency; harmony and sound
colour are continuous phenomena. Are we to refuse these new categories, as do
certain current tendencies? Too often where integration is required there is merely
collage, in which complex sounds merely serve—at best—to create ‘special effects’
within a traditional musical discourse made up of conventional sonorities.
Musical structures of the past (tonal, serial, etc.) fail to account for intermediate
categories because they force acoustical reality through inexorable sieves. We must, in
fact, work with precisely those areas that have been neglected, and use their specific
qualities, exploiting the imbalances of their internal energies and flowing dynamism,
even drawing from them new structures of order that might apply to both the micro
and the macro level of the score.
We need, in fact, new organizing principles that do not exclude one or more
categories a priori, but integrate the totality of sonic phenomena. There is no such
thing, in itself, as a beautiful or an ugly sound: sounds are beautiful or ugly as
determined by their contexts. In general, their qualities are perceived as a function of
the energy directing the musical work in which they figure. We cannot, then, exclude
or isolate: we need a method of synthetic composition.

The Enrichment of Compositional Technique by Its Materials

At this point, I would like to give some simple examples of the interaction of the new
materials and compositional technique, of the enrichment of compositional
technique by its materials. This is a vast subject, and I will limit the discussion to
a few precise examples: the influence of certain electroacoustic techniques on creating
hybrid ‘intermediate’ states, the transposition of techniques from one domain to the
other, and the integration of noise and complex instrumental sounds.

Echoes, Loops, Reverberation

Systems of echoes or re-injection loops provide a good illustration of instrumental
composition’s adaptation of studio techniques. The re-injection loop, the classic
procedure of setting music to tape live, is a familiar idea. The set-up involves two
recorders separated by a precisely calibrated distance; the tape runs from one to the
other. The first recorder tapes the signals it receives (often an instrument recorded
through a microphone); the second reads the tape after a lag, the length of which is
determined by the distance between the recorders. As the second recorder reads the
tape, it sends the signal back to the first, where it blends with the new signals that are
simultaneously arriving. This creates an accretion of sounds that is theoretically
infinite. The process is not a classical canon, even if today’s machines are without
 Contemporary Music Review 125
imperfections. The interest in the process is that the sound, recopied and, above all,
continually remixed with the new signals, is progressively worn down, degraded,
transformed, destroyed. The sound merges with white noise, and the process ends
with the emergence of new frequencies, of self-generated rhythms, of interferences.
I used the principle of the re-injection loop in a purely instrumental piece,
Mémoire/Erosion, written for horn and nine instruments (four winds, five strings).
The horn produces sounds that will be recorded by an entirely imaginary set-up. As
in a re-injection loop, the listener will hear each phrase played by the horn repeated
after a certain interval of time; it is, of course, the other instruments that produce the
re-emission. But the initial phrase (or sound) will never be exactly repeated. With
each repetition, a process of erosion will be played out that, while destroying the
original musical structures played by the horn, will gradually reconstitute new
structures that, in turn, will be put to the same process of erosion; and in this way the
piece develops. Several types of erosion are at the heart of Mémoire/Erosion: erosion
through timbre, by the wearing out or smoothing of contours, by proliferation, by
interference.
This brings us to the closely related concept of entropy, which I have found highly
fruitful—above all when composing with processes. Positive entropy is defined as the
progressive passage from order to disorder. The entire universe is subject to its law:
natural erosion, one of its manifestations, destroys geological structures to create
disorder, the final stage of which is indifferentiation. Life, considered as negative
entropy, constructs an ephemeral order.
This idea also suggests an obvious technique to integrate noise naturally. The slow
process of desegregation and restructuring described above permits the imperceptible
passing from ‘pure’ sounds to noisy ones, via manifold forms of complex sonorities.
To return for a moment to the parallel between studio techniques and compositional
method, the studio has limitations that composition does not. For example, if one uses
re-injection loops in a studio, the length of the tape must be preserved over the course of
the work, unless complicated set-ups are used that only function with enormous
difficulties. On the other hand, on paper the only problem is calculating the durations.
In Mémoire/Erosion, the length of the fictional re-injection loop varies between and one
and three seconds. The changes in duration are sometimes sudden, at other times
gradual (which necessitate more complex calculations). One can imagine many other
manipulations through composition, for example to suddenly stop the re-injection
process for some of the instruments and throw them in another loop that feeds upon
itself (producing a rapid degradation), etc.
One can subject other electronic effects to this type of treatment. Take the
phenomenon of echo: if a normal echo repeats identically and regularly—which is
hardly interesting—one could very well imagine an echo that, for example, slows over
its successive repetitions, all the while modifying the repeated object along certain
rules. Figure 1 shows a sound (the note C) put to this type of imaginary echo. Here,
the harmonics of the C appear progressively and descend an octave at each repetition,
producing increasingly complex chord-timbres (the opposite of a natural echo, which
126 Tristan Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)

Figure 1 A sound (the note C) put in an imaginary echo.

tends to filter in the opposite direction). I have explored this effect fairly thoroughly
in the piano solo Territoires de l’oubli.
Clearly, many other types of transpositions (and many other stratagems inspired
by them) are imaginable. I will limit myself to just a few examples: the use of
sequencing similar to that of a synthesizer; working on intensities like faders on a
mixing board (sudden movements would translate as an immediate drop in volume;
‘zooms’ in intensity would highlight a particular texture, or certain elements of a
texture, like a microphone approaching an instrument), the establishment of
relations between parameters, like those aided by voltage controls (e.g. a relation
between interval and duration or between duration and frequency off-sets, as occurs
when we speed up a tape recorder, etc.), the exploitation of electrical mishaps
(saturation, bleed-through), etc.

Harmonic and Inharmonic Spectra

If harmonic spectra have often been invoked to justify this or that theory of music, a
systematic study and conscious use of their characteristics is a recent development.
The harmonic spectrum’s composition is well known (Figure 2).
Nature, traditional instruments and synthesizers all offer examples of defective
spectra: spectra composed of odd-numbered partials (roughly corresponding to the
clarinet’s spectrum—or a pure square wave, to be precise); harmonic series missing
one out of every three partials; etc. (Figure 3).
From this starting point, a variety of treatments can, of course, be invented with a
little ingenuity: ‘filters’ that latch onto the harmonic series in various ways, by
selecting only certain components, to produce aggregates of frequencies with
interesting properties; a ‘band-pass’ filter, for example, which masks all but a portion
of the spectrum. In Figure 4, a portion of a spectrum of odd-numbered partials is
filtered.
It is also easy to imagine a type of ‘comb filter’ in which every third harmonic
starting at the third partial are selected, or every fifth starting from the fifth, or an
irregular selection, etc. (Figure 5).
It would be equally possible to create filters inspired by ‘phasing’ that would
produce a kind of filtering in motion. Transposed to instrumental writing, this
 Contemporary Music Review 127

Figure 2 The harmonic spectrum (built here on a C).

Figure 3 Defective spectra.

Figure 4 A ‘filtered’ square wave.

Figure 5 A ‘comb filtered’ harmonic spectrum.

process would generate internal movements within harmonic aggregates, a sweeping

through all frequencies; I used this especially in Ethers (see Figure 6).
Properties of spectra, then, support harmonic ideas, and allow the fabrication of
agglomerations that are neither harmonies nor timbres, but rather progressions
within the domain of timbre-harmony—for example, progressive decompositions
from timbre to harmony. A first and very simple example is the excerpt from
Territoires de l’oubli shown in Figure 7.
128 Tristan Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)

Figure 6 Internal movements within a harmonic aggregate from Ethers.

Figure 7 Progressive decomposition from timbre to harmony from Territoires de l’oubli.

The piano repeats formula a several times. After a while—the pedal remaining
depressed—a G emerges, since it is present in spectra of three of formula a’s
frequencies. The pitch G is then actually played, and the first formula is replaced by
formula b.
This type of procedure can be generalized; an entire passage, even a whole score,
could be organized by a system of pitch generation. Formulated in this way, the rules
of harmonic chains would easily extend to the categories of complex, intermediate or
instable sounds and the like, and would even determine their usages. The entire basic
structure of 13 couleurs du soleil couchant, as well as certain passages in Gérard
Grisey’s Partiels, are based on such schemes (e.g. see Figure 8).
The sound generator a creates its own harmonics (via an intermediate stage a in
which the timbre is decomposed); harmonic 1 creates its own harmonic c. Sounds c
and d react against each other as in ring modulation and we hear the differential tone
d and the additive tone s. d then becomes the next sound generator, and the process
continues.
Figure 9 shows another example of organizing pitches (and timbre) by successive
generators, this one from the beginning of Mémoire/Erosion.
 Contemporary Music Review 129

Figure 8 System of pitch generation from a passage in Gérard Grisey’s Partiels.

Figure 9 Organizing pitches by successive generators, from the beginning of Mémoire/

Erosion.

The whole harmonic structure is drawn from the first C of the horn. The strings,
having taken over the C, gradually move their bows towards the bridge, projecting
harmonics taken up elsewhere in the ensemble, while the C drifts slightly flat, as if it
were slowed down on a turntable (b). These effects of drift and germination are
intensified (d—e – f). The C, weakening as its harmonics strengthen, finally
disappears, while its spectrum is increasingly distorted, along with its timbre—
rubbings and distortions of the strings (g—h – i). The B-flat is reinforced at the heart
of this composite spectrum—a familiar phenomenon of re-injection loops (j)—and
finally sustained, accompanied by high frequencies that sound like its partials. Please
note that this brief analysis is necessarily incomplete, limited to the work’s harmony,
ignoring the intimate interdependence of harmony, rhythm and timbre.
This last example, where harmonic relationships are quickly distorted, might
provide an entry into the domain of inharmonic spectra. Many instruments have
inharmonic spectra, including the piano and the tubular bells. Inharmonic spectra
themselves give rise to particularly rich and interesting spectra and can be classified
under this new category of complex sounds, since they resist analysis as either
harmonies or timbres. One can try to synthesize them within a composition and
handle them artificially, through ‘instrumental synthesis’. Gérard Grisey did this very
often, especially with processes of passing from a harmonic spectrum to an
130 Tristan Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)
inharmonic one. The entire structure of Sortie vers la lumière du jour is based on this
idea: in the middle of the score, we hear the harmonic spectrum of a low C. All
harmonies before and after this point are based upon a progressive deviation from
this spectrum; at the same time, a filtering effect reduces what we hear of these
spectra to increasingly constricted frequency bands.
In Modulations, Grisey makes simultaneous use of four defective harmonic spectra,
three of which correspond to actual spectra of muted horns (the fourth is imaginary
but completes the others). The four spectra evolve progressively to inharmonicity by
divergent shifts in frequency; the maximum point of inharmonicity is reached with
A’’, B’’, C’’, D’’ (Figure 10).
Frequency modulation provides a process rich in spectral synthesis. This technique
has been highly developed in computer-driven synthesis: it can also serve to calculate
frequency aggregates for ‘instrumental synthesis’. Here is a brief résumé of results
obtained through this process: we start with two frequencies, the carrier tone c and
the modulator m. The modulator is added to and subtracted from the carrier i
number of times. If i = 1, the resultant frequencies are: c, c + m, c – m. If i = 4 , the
resultant frequencies are: c, c + m, c – m, c + 2m, c – 2m, c + 3m, c – 3m, c + 4m, c –
4m, etc. In reality, things are a little more complicated, since the intensity of each
component must be accounted for—a situation that depends upon a precise
mathematical law (Bessel functions).
If c and m are related by a factor of a whole number, the ensemble of components
forms a harmonic spectrum; if they are not, the resultant spectrum is inharmonic.
Substracting m from c brings us into the domain of negative frequencies; in other
words, when c – im 5 0, an interesting phenomenon of ‘foldover’ occurs. Since from
the sonic perspective a negative frequency is identical to its absolute value,

Figure 10 Four spectra and their evolutions from Grisey’s Modulations.

 Contemporary Music Review 131

Figure 11 Frequency modulation aggregates from the beginning of Gondwana.

subtraction results in ascending frequencies that will eventually mesh with the
original additive components, which will reinforce certain regions of the spectrum.
Figure 11 illustrates three examples of aggregates obtained by frequency
modulation. They are drawn from the beginning of Gondwana for orchestra (almost
the entire work is based on this type of aggregate).
The role of these aggregates—played by wind instruments—is to synthesize large
bell sonorities (whose attacks progressively soften to resemble, at the end, horn
attacks in c). The intensities of each component lessen as they ascend in pitch, while
their durations are based on each component’s numerical position in the order. This
is symbolized by the small ‘sonograms’ represented under aggregates a and c.
It is essential to remember that these aggregates are not simple chords in the
classical sense of the term. They resound as complex units that are frequently difficult
to analyse by ear. The relations between the components transform them into
indissoluble blocks (similar, in this sense, to sounds produced by ring modulation in
electronic music). This brings us to the idea of ‘harmony-timbre’. Each component of
a ‘harmony-timbre’ possesses a frequency, an intensity, and a numerical position in
the order (that indicates its beginning and ending points).

Integration of Complex Sounds and Noise

The classical orchestra had long possessed a method for integrating white noise.
Cymbals, timbales and the bass drum were used to add components of white noise to
orchestral tones, in order to render more complex an orchestral spectrum that was
otherwise simple by the very definition of tonality. Since the music was so often (and
in the case of a final chord always) limited to the three pitches of the triad, adding
percussion was the only method of adding complexity and lustre. Later, when the
percussion arsenal was expanded and given some independence, it was highlighted
instead of integrated. It must be said that in many cases, an elementary and arbitrary
132 Tristan Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)
juxtaposition was employed, without any aesthetic rationale other than the wish to
appear modern.
We are currently witnessing a subtler, more intelligible use of percussion. It has
largely resumed its original role as the supplier of white noise that either combines
with the purer frequencies of the orchestra or creates independent structures.
A perfect example of this new method of integration is found in Hugues
Dufourt’s Saturne, where the six percussionists blend with 12 winds and four live
electronic instruments, giving the composer a large palette capable of producing a
wide arsenal of sounds from the purest to the most complex, and every nuance
between.
Michaël Lévinas has developed a singular method of integrating white noise: snare
drums are placed in front of wind instruments to resonate sympathetically. The
complex sounds that result are formed from the sounds of the instruments and the
vibrations of the snare heads. A particularly good example of this method is his work
Appels, for amplified instrumental ensemble.
It must be noted that the use of percussion described above is frustrated by the
current lack of precision in describing the instruments’ characteristics. What, exactly,
is the effect of a ‘high’ cymbal or a ‘low’ tam-tam? Different orchestras and different
instruments attach different meanings to the same appellation. Why can’t the
frequency bands of percussion instruments be as exactly defined as those of other
instruments? Without some type of standardization, it will be impossible to continue
much further in the direction of a sophisticated and intelligent use of the
instruments.

Uses of Complex Instrumental Sounds

As mentioned above, composers have often thrown themselves into the world of
extended instrumental techniques with much abandon but little discernment. Rather
than creating a coherent system for the integration of new instrumental sounds,
extended techniques have been used as simple ‘sound effects’, as exotic stunts, often
inappropriate or casually tossed off.
But if these sounds—their inner structures and the way they are produced—are
studied with some scrutiny, more rational methods could be discovered that could
well give rise to a new musical logic. This could lead to an ideal compositional
method in which structures of sounds would correspond to musical forms. Both
would adhere to the same criteria and follow the same principles of organization;
there would be perfect reciprocity between the score’s microcosm and macrocosm;
the form – content distinction would be blurred and finally rendered meaningless, as
one half of the opposition would be understood as a direct result of, and even
identical to, the other. We have seen some examples of this kind of organization in
the use of harmonic and inharmonic spectra. Here are some simple examples of
integrating complex instrumental sounds, and of ‘feedback’ between compositional
technique and the material it can elicit.
 Contemporary Music Review 133

Multiphonics
Figure 12, drawn once again from Mémoire/Erosion, displays the transformation of a
simple chord (a) to a complex sound (d) through wind multiphonics and ponticello
string sounds.
Chord a is played with internal movements by all instruments. The frequencies
drift slightly to produce b. The strings, playing on the bridge, add new frequencies
(harmonics), while multiphonics drawn from the first chord appear one by one,
each adding distortion. The process ends in the highly complex final aggregate
that is more a timbre—a global sound—than a chord; the noteheads in the score
are only components and their pitches are not really audible. Curiously, the
resulting sonority has a somewhat electronic quality. The process is also one of
movement from the fragment of a harmonic spectrum (a) to a totally inharmonic
one (d).
Figure 13 presents three of the aggregates that end 13 couleurs du soleil couchant.
Here we have ‘bell-like’ sonorities. Sound a is formed of fragments of two harmonic
spectra based on D-sharp and F-sharp (these share components that link their
fundamentals, in the way that inharmonic partials of a bell give the impression of
fusion). In b and c, the introduction of multiphonics and ponticello (harmonics of
harmonics) render the sound more complex; the fundamentals’ primacy cedes to

Figure 12 Transformation from simple sound to complex chord from Mémoire/Erosion.

Figure 13 Aggregates from the conclusion of 13 couleurs du soleil couchant.

134 Tristan Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)
harmonic and inharmonic partials towards the high register. By the end (d and e),
only a few high partials remain.

‘Crushed’ String Sounds

The increased pressure of the bow on the string produces more than a ‘scrape’ effect;
it also produces frequencies lower than the fingered pitch, a type of inferior
harmonic. Theoretically, we should hear a pitch an octave below the notated one (this
is how Crumb notates the effect in Black Angels for amplified string quartet). But, in
practice, the pressure distends and raises the string, so we hear a pitch close to a
major seventh below. The process is at the heart of the example shown in Figure 14,
from Ethers for six instruments.
The violin’s double stop replicates the flute’s multiphonic, then ‘crushes’ the bow,
producing something close to aggregate a. The viola takes this ‘crushed’ sound and
‘crushes’ it again (b), and the cello does the same. With the final sound (d), the
process ends, and the music rises by playing with harmonics from the viola’s
ponticello sounds. The violin’s final double stop creates a new multiphonic dyad for
the flute, and the process is renewed (the piece continues in this way under a large
acceleration where each process is compressed by degrees, until the short duration of
a 32nd note brings it to an end).

Figure 14 Process of sound generation from Ethers.

 Contemporary Music Review 135
It seems to me that the entire range of complex sounds can be integrated
functionally within a musical logic, rather than used as a startling daub of colour, or
only for expressive ends, for their anomalous or paroxysmal qualities. But on a more
fundamental level they have an irreplaceable role in all processes of harmony and
timbre. With their help, timbres are split into harmonies, harmonies fuse as timbres;
without them, certain types of evolution that by definition require intermediate
stages would prove impossible. They also demand that we open our musical horizons,
and burst the traditional grids with which we have tried to imprison music (ring or
frequency modulation in electronic music, like complex instrumental sounds, require
us to abandon the tempered scale, and will not permit us to replace it with another
filigree just as arbitrary, like an octave divided into 24 or 36 microtones). From this
new reality of sounds should grow new methods of organization capable of
embracing all categories of sound, past and future.
It will be an organization of energies, or paths—the path from pitch to noise, from
smooth frequencies to rough ones, from periodic to random rhythms, etc. Musical
form will no longer consist of frozen structures but of forces, and dynamisms. The
old oppositions of container and content, of form and material will lose all meaning,
since compositional process will have become an art of synthesis, born of a
continuous movement from differentiation to integration.

Notes
[1] Our hearing has also been highly conditioned to perceive categorical entities where they do
not exist—particularly through contextual effects. This has been the subject of numerous
psycho-acoustic experiments studying why, for example, do we often hear as in tune a violin
that is, in fact, playing out of tune.
[2] The organ already possessed this ability. However, it was not until Messiaen, with his radically
slow tempos, that any composer took advantage of this capacity. Moreover, the organ is too
stable: it is nearly impossible to create progressions of intensity, successive cross-fades, etc;
whereas, the electroacoustic studio makes almost anything possible, in this domain.
Contemporary Music Review
Vol. 24, No. 2/3, April/June 2005, pp. 137 – 147

Spectra and Sprites1

Tristan Murail (translated by Tod Machover)

New tonality, neo-romanticism, new simplicity, neo-serialism, minimalism, budding

Boulezes, miniature Stockhausens, Xenakis copies, neo-impressionists, Donatoni
cloning himself. . . If you looked at concert programme notes or festival brochures,
you might think that an entire generation of composers is fixated on the past.
‘I don’t know what notes to write anymore,’ a terribly confused composer told me
recently.
‘Well, let’s write a lot, as many as we can, indecipherable masses for eye and ear,’
answer certain people (who would probably want to cover their own tracks).
‘Let’s limit the number of musical notes as much as possible and repeat them until
saturation point,’ is the counterattack of some others (who admittedly enjoy an
excellent performing rights/fatigue ratio).
‘Let’s borrow from our predecessors who seemed after all quite satisfied and, if we
forget complexes about writing style, we can express ourselves freely,’ says the
majority (and, in this case at least, with the agreement of music critics).
It is true that after permutating 12 poor notes for three centuries it might seem as if all
the combinations had been used up (a small reminder to all you unrepentant serialists:
since there are 479,001,600 different possible series, you’ve still got a sunny future).
Let’s forget this dizzying algebra of permutations: we have obviously already heard
many of the ‘meaningful’ combinations of the notes of the tempered scale and, of
course, they very often possess connotations, ‘tonal’ or otherwise. The same could be
said about other musical phenomena: rhythm, form, orchestration. . .
But why do we always have to speak of music in terms of notes?

Beyond Categories
Our conception of music is held prisoner by tradition and by our education. All has
been cut into slices, put into categories, classified, limited.
There is a conceptual error from the very beginning: a composer does not work
with 12 notes, x rhythmic figures, x dynamic markings, all infinitely permutable; he
works with sound and time.
Sound has been confounded with its representations, and we work with these, with
symbols. Since these symbols are limited in number, we quickly come up against the wall.

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138 T. Murail (trans. Tod Machover)
And this situation can become absurd: representations of unbelievable complexity
that, in fact, no longer represent anything at all—since the music has become
unperformable, or literally unhearable in the sense that there is no correspondence
between the music perceived by the listener and that conceived by the composer. No,
note and sound are not the same, nor is the note any more the elementary atom of
music, nor is it the ‘objet sonore’ in Pierre Schaeffer’s sense. It is only a symbol that
gives a more or less precise indication to the performer of what gesture he should
make and what result he should try to produce. Therefore all fossilized categories
must be abandoned. Why try to distinguish the concept of harmony from that of
timbre? The only reason is our cultural conditioning. It is perfectly easy to perceive
many distinct frequencies in a single sound (e.g. a low cello note): conversely, we can
also perceive a single sound that results from the addition of many frequencies: this is
the principle exploited by organ stops. One can progressively separate timbres to
create the effect of a harmony and, conversely, progressively fuse harmonic relations
until they create a timbral effect. Sometimes with very little change a quite
differentiated conglomerate can become a single sonic object, fused. The relative
amplitudes of the sonic components, their frequency relations, their quality, make all
the difference.
Therefore there is a harmony – timbre continuum. A timbre can be defined as an
addition of basic elements, pure frequencies, sometimes white noise bands; a
harmony is created by adding timbres together, which is to say the addition of
additions of basic sonic components. In other words, there is theoretically no
difference between the two concepts; it is all a question of perception, of habits of
perception.
In the same way there are other continuums, for instance rhythm/dynamics or
rhythm/frequency (since one may descend on the frequency scale until beating
occurs), and the continuum formed by the frequency space itself, before being
divided into steps.
In fact, why divide this frequency space into octaves in the first place, and then the
octave into 12 steps? The only reasons are historical and practical. It is well known
that for ages people have tried to divide the octave differently: into 24 (quarter-
tones), into 18 (third-tones), sometimes even into wild numbers like Harry Partch.
Even ‘non-octave space’ has been discussed. But finally all this is also arbitrary. And
there isn’t even a historical justification any more for any such division; micro-
intervals are usually just plain painful if they are thought of as extensions of normal
octave divisions. Frequency space is continuous and acoustical reality only has to
define its own temperaments. If we push this reasoning to an extreme, the
combination of pure frequencies could be used to explain all past categories of
musical discourse and all future ones. Harmony, melody, counterpoint, orchestra-
tion, etc., become outdated and are included in larger concepts. These fundamental
elements, these pure frequencies (sine-waves) have their own life, separate, fuse,
converge or diverge, and create diverse perceptual phenomena according to their
loudness, interrelations, movements. . .
 Contemporary Music Review 139
Of course electronic music destroyed these categorical limits long ago. Electronics
opened our ears. But electronic music often suffers from the opposite excess: a lack of
formalization, of écriture or writing in the largest sense, of structuring the sonic
universes that it discovers.
How, in fact, is it possible to organize these infinite sonic spaces that are
continuous and unlimited? How to organize the frequency space if all temperament is
negated (equal or not), or durations if common ones are not used? Since there are no
longer any ‘absolute’ reference points, it is necessary to fall back on ‘relative’ ones,
and work on differences, on relationships between the elements themselves, and not
on the relationship between objects and an external frame of reference. This is the
definition of a new kind of music: a ‘differential’ conception where the interest is in
the relationship between objects rather than in the objects themselves, where time is
organized by flux and not by segment.

Appearance of Spectra
Musical notation no longer exists as a given, nor as a point of departure; it only serves
as the end point of a compositional process and to transcribe the results obtained for
the observer (quite often in a necessarily approximate manner).
Establishing links between these elements is a matter of conceiving ‘functions’ in
the mathematical sense. In principle it would suffice to describe the structure of
durations and primary partials in order to describe everything. In fact this just about
describes the process of classical synthesis on a computer.
In the domain of durations, it is easy to organize the appearance of elements in
terms of functions (number of elements on the axis, time on the abscissa, or
perhaps the number of elements on the abscissa, time on the axis, or even duration
on the axis, time on the abscissa). With simple functions, it is possible to generate
many types of rallentandi or accelerandi (more or less exponential, for example); by
making them more complex, superimposing and adding functions, one can
discover many sorts of fluctuation which can be used to introduce surprise or
‘humanize’ the process, or to describe patterns of durational organization and
disorganization. None of this is arbitrary: instinctive tempo fluctuations made by
musicians obey these same laws.
In the frequency domain, which I will consider in a bit more depth, functions are
used to construct ‘spectra’. A spectrum is a group composed of a certain number of
elements, each of which has:

. a frequency (perhaps modulated)

. an amplitude (which can change over time)
. a ‘rank’ that allows each component to be calculated as a function of the
generating sound(s), and may allow the spectrum to evolve over time.

The frequency of each component is therefore defined as: freq = f (rank).

140 T. Murail (trans. Tod Machover)
Most known spectra obey a linear relation (y = ax + b). Specifically, the harmonic
series has the function: freq = a x r, ‘a’ being the fundamental, ‘r’ the harmonic rank.
The graph representation of this function is, of course, a straight line stemming from
the origin.
In reality, interesting harmonic spectra are not so simple: they are defective,
meaning that only certain partials are heard or, put another way, certain are missing.
In addition, each component has a relative amplitude. Generally, with instrumental
sounds, the lower the partial, the higher the amplitude. But there are many exceptions
(that make our orchestra interesting. . .). Often the second harmonic is stronger than
the first (also called the fundamental), or the fundamental may be completely absent,
as is the case for low notes on the piano. Also, harmonics are often louder in a certain
spectral region, and define a ‘formant’, which is typical of instrumental timbres.
To construct harmonic spectra, two processes are possible: defining an algorithm
or basing it on an instrumental timbre.
Simple waveforms (such as those generated by classic synthesizers) correspond to
simple algorithms. For example, ‘square’ and ‘triangle’ waves consist only of uneven
partials. Pulse waves correspond to defective harmonic series: 1, 2, 4, 5, 7, 8, etc. for a
cycle 1/3, 2/3. There is also a function for partial amplitudes: i = f(r). For the partials
of a triangle wave, amplitude can be determined by the function I = l/r2 (r still being
the ordering), for the square wave: i = 1/r. It is of course possible to construct more
complex series by using these basic procedures. One can also ‘filter’ the harmonic
series in many ways, fragment it, only use certain portions, manipulate amplitudes. . ..
Instruments provide a very large number of interesting models that are revealed
through spectral analysis. Here, for example, is the spectral analysis of C1 of the piano
(the lowest C). The left column indicates partial number, the right relative amplitude
(in reference to the loudest partial present). This list stops at the 50th harmonic, but
the analysis detects energy up to partial 118 (see Figure 1)!

Figure 1 Spectral analysis of the note C1 on the piano.

 Contemporary Music Review 141
Many of these principles were used in my work Désintégrations, realized at IRCAM
in 1982/1983. All of the material for the piece (which is scored for orchestra and
tape), its microforms and systems of evolution, were determined from such spectral
analyses, from the decomposition or artificial reconstruction of harmonic and
inharmonic spectra. Most of the spectra were of instrumental origin: low piano notes,
brass instruments, and the cello were used most often.
The tape does not try to imitate instrumental sounds; instead they serve as models
for the construction of timbres or harmonies. Many types of spectral treatment are
employed in this piece:

. ‘Splitting’: only one spectral region is used (e.g. the ‘bell’ sounds at the beginning
and end are obtained by splitting a piano spectrum).
. Filtering: to exaggerate or enhance certain partials.
. Spectral exploration: movement within a sound; one hears the partials one by
one, timbre becomes melody (e.g. in the third section, small bells made by
disintegrating flute and clarinet spectra).
. Inharmonic spectra: ‘linear’ by adding or subtracting frequencies, ‘non-linear’ by
distorting a spectrum or applying a new frequency curve (e.g. in the penultimate
section, progressive distortion of a low trombone sound).

The tape was produced using additive synthesis, which involves the description of
all dimensions of each partial. This seemed necessary to allow me to play with each
spectrum with the precision that I wished. I had for a long time applied similar
techniques to instrumental and orchestral works, and in Désintégrations the same
processes are found in both orchestra and tape.
Classic synthesis programs were too ponderous and too slow, so the 4X real-time
digital synthesizer was used. Even so, each sound required the definition of hundreds
of parameters that were calculated by the ‘Syntad’ program I had written on IRCAM’s
central computer. The computer was also used in the writing of the orchestral score
and in the choice of pitches and calculation of durations. Additionally, ‘Syntad’
directly generated certain microforms.
Tape and instruments are complementary. The tape often exaggerates the character
of the instruments, diffracting and disintegrating their timbre, or amplifying the
orchestra. The synchronization between the two must be perfect in performance,
which is the reason for the ‘click track’ that the conductor listens to during the piece.
The piece is made up of 11 connected sections. It progresses from one section to
the next by transition-transformation, or by passing a ‘threshold’. Each section
emphasizes one type of spectral treatment, the description of which is beyond the
scope of this article. Suffice it to say that within each type of treatment, each section
evolves from harmonic to inharmonic, or vice versa. This creates changes of light and
shade accompanied by agitation, and by rhythmic order and disorder.
Let us look at a specific example of spectral treatment, taken from the beginning of
Désintégrations. The entire opening is based upon aggregates taken from the formants
142 T. Murail (trans. Tod Machover)
of a low piano spectrum (boxed zones in Figure 1) that serve both for the tape and
the instrumental writing. In Figure 2, the aggregates noted ‘a’ come from the
spectrum with a virtual fundamental of A#0, aggregates ‘b’ from fundamental C#2
(this relationship between fundamentals is characteristic of bell spectra, explained
below). The small numbers correspond to the partial numbers, with notes
approximated to the nearest 1/8 tone (a short parenthesis: these procedures for
spectral construction always produce ‘non-tempered’ frequencies, which must then
be approximated for instrumental performance. For electronic synthesis this problem
obviously does not exist and the exact frequencies can be used).
In reality, the piano spectrum is not perfectly harmonic. It contains a slight
distortion, which stretches the highest frequencies. This allows us to move smoothly
and naturally into the inharmonic domain, for which we have many instrumental
models (notably most percussion instruments). Take, for example, the bell: bell
manufacturers try especially to obtain a characteristic spectrum that contains
inharmonic partials, in particular the minor third over the fundamental (Figure 3).
Electronic music has tried to imitate such sonorities and has usually employed two
techniques to achieve this: ring modulation (for analogue synthesis) and frequency
modulation (for digital synthesis). In both cases, the relationship between frequency
and partial number is linear, as with the harmonic series, but the graph of the
function is a straight line that does not pass through the origin. That is the major
difference between this type of spectrum and a harmonic series. Figure 4 shows the
graph of a typical frequency modulation, whose equation is: freq = c + (m x i) (m
modulator, c carrier, i index).
If the value of ‘i’ is large enough, the frequencies of the equation C 7 (m x i)
eventually become negative. Since a negative frequency is identical to a positive one

Figure 2 Aggregates taken from the beginning of Désintégrations.

Figure 3 A typical bell spectrum.

 Contemporary Music Review 143

Figure 4 Frequency modulation spectrum. Labeling in this figure uses the French
conventions where middle C (C4) is labeled D03; indice refers to the index.

with the phase inverted, the phenomenon of ‘foldover’ occurs. Indicated by the
dotted line, this phenomenon considerably enriches these spectra. The trick is to vary
‘i’ over time in order to produce spectral fluctuations.
Finally, let’s leave the domain of linear functions. The analysis of the piano sound
discussed above suggests such a move. The ‘real’ piano spectrum could be calculated
by using a power function (y = axb + c). If ‘b’ is close to 1, there will only be a slight
distortion in relation to a harmonic spectrum (see Figure 5).
If this phenomenon is exaggerated, eccentric spectra are obtained that have violent
compressions or expansions of partials. Figure 6 shows two examples, with b 4 1 and
b 5 1.
Whatever the nature of the spectrum—harmonic, inharmonic, linear, non-linear—
the most important thing is for these spectra to evolve over time: to become more or
less rich, enhance their harmonicity or inharmonicity, linearity or non-linearity. This
is how musical forms are born—microforms or macroforms—where all is connected
and interdependent—frequencies, durations, combinations of frequencies—therefore
harmonies and even orchestration. Figure 7 shows a simple example of microform: a
collision of high sounds, crotales, glockenspiel, piano, tape—again taken from
Désintégrations.
All of these sounds derive from harmonic spectra, whose fundamentals will be
heard later when they fuse together to create the spectra of a flute, clarinet and muted
trombone (doubling instruments that are playing live); the jangling of bells will be
reabsorbed by sustained instrumental sounds.
It is harder to give an example of macroform since it would be necessary to analyse
an entire section of the piece. In Figure 8 is a small diagram, which corresponds again
144 T. Murail (trans. Tod Machover)

Figure 5 Slight spectral distortion (stretching) relative to harmonic spectrum. Labeling

in this figure uses the French conventions where middle C is labeled D03; RANG refers to
RANK.

to the end of the same piece, or rather to the section just before the end. The process
represented lasts about 3 minutes (though that music also contains many other
phenomena).
It should be clear that these compositional procedures demand certain
calculations (many calculations in fact): simple calculations for linear functions,
much more complex ones for other functions, power, exponential or logarithmic.
Moreover, the results of these calculations, expressed in frequency (hertz) or in
duration (seconds), must themselves be transcribed into musical notation—a long
and tedious process.
This is the first task to delegate to the computer, undisputed champion of
repetitive processes: all sorts of calculations, transcription of results, and then
visualization—why not—in the form of musical notation, staves, notes and
accidentals. The newer microcomputers can define graphic entities that have been
attractively named ‘sprites’,2 which can move around the screen: a good thing for us.
Once the result of a frequency modulation calculation, or any other, has been
calculated, the screen will fill up with these sprites in the form of musical notes so
that we can immediately appreciate the sonic result of our investigations.
 Contemporary Music Review 145

Figure 6 Highly distorted spectra. Labeling in this figure uses the French conventions
where middle C is labeled D03; Rang refers to rank.

Data could then be entered quite easily, with a light pen or digitizing tablet or even
a piano keyboard. Going a step further: thanks to present interfacing technology and
computer-controlled oscillator banks, it is possible to imagine being able to hear
these sounds at the same time as they are represented graphically, or to print the
results of automated composition algorithms, without needing to use large and costly
machines. With 30 or 40 oscillators and the proper software, the (additive) synthesis
resources would already be quite powerful and could equal, in speed if not in power,
the larger systems found in research institutes. This would be the other role for the
computer: a sort of generalized additive synthesis system, capable of generating
timbres as well as microforms, macroforms or long evolutions.
Even with such a system, the necessary instructions—the data to enter—are
enormous. Moreover, if any attempt is made to generalize some of the previous ideas
concerning large-scale form, the system will rapidly become too complex to be
understood and controlled in an intuitive manner by the composer/user. Therefore,
one must find ways to automate aspects of these processes at an even higher level, to
146 T. Murail (trans. Tod Machover)

Figure 7 Microform from Désintégrations.

build a computer-assisted composition system (CAC). This use of the computer is

rather novel; rather than separating sound synthesis on the one hand and automated
compositional algorithms on the other, it involves the construction of an interactive,
‘inviting’ environment—similar to systems that exist in other domains (industrial
design, architecture: CAD, i.e. computer-aided design).
The opportunities for the future are staggering. Take the example of orchestration:
how can we go beyond the empirical solutions we are presently obliged to use?
Obviously, the rules found in treatises are mostly well-founded; the instincts of great
 Contemporary Music Review 147

Figure 8 Process immediately preceding the end of Désintégrations.

composers have often (though not always) been sure-footed. Nevertheless, couldn’t
we go even further? We now understand, thanks to acoustical analysis, the solidity
and motivation behind many empirical recipes, yet there is still an infinity of new
possibilities to discover (I would even say that practically everything remains to be
discovered). Ideally, one would have to account for the interaction of each timbre
with all others (this is the idea behind ‘instrumental synthesis’), implying knowledge
of every instrumental spectrum (which all vary depending on loudness, pitch and
articulation).
If we wish to achieve the necessary finesse in this work, the use of computers is
indispensable, yet again. We need a real computerized orchestration treatise, or rather
a CAO (computer-assisted orchestration) system. Even better, we can dream of
having ‘orchestration machines’ in a few years, with which the composer could
experiment—all the while listening to the combinations that he imagines.
There is a great future in the alliance of spectra and sprites.3

Notes
[1] This article was originally published in English as ‘Spectra and Pixies’ in Contemporary Music
Review, 1984, 1(1), 157 – 170.
[2] Editor’s note: ‘Sprite’ is a computer-science term used to refer to small bitmap images that
were often used in videogame programming in the 1980s; the term can also sometimes refer to
icons. In general, the rise of font-based programming and the exponential increase in
computing and graphical power of modern computers have made sprites (and other
techniques intended to reduce the computing power required for a given task) less important
to the actual work of programmers in the 23 years since this article was written. This change
does not alter the nature of the relationships described, only the technical means that would
now be used to realize them.
[3] Editor’s note: This article was originally published in 1982. Since that time, many of the
systems imagined have been created at IRCAM and elsewhere. Some of this work is mentioned
in later articles. Additionally, a computer-assisted orchestration system related to the one
described here is currently under construction at IRCAM.
Contemporary Music Review
Vol. 24, No. 2/3, April/June 2005, pp. 149 – 171

Target Practice1
Tristan Murail (translated by Joshua Cody)

At times it is surely necessary for a composer to reflect upon his method. But should
he express these reflections? Speaking about oneself carries risks: limiting one’s
development, self-censorship. For that matter, is it really up to the composer to
construct his own theories? Does that not imply a failure of our musicology? If the act
of observation disturbs the observed object, what do we say when the observed and
the observer amount to the same thing? And let us not forget that the ambiguity of
our vocabulary will not make anything easier. I do not believe music expresses
meaning; therefore, terms like ‘language’, ‘writing’, ‘message’, ‘structure’, etc. can
only be used as oblique analogies to spoken language. I shall always understand these
words in the most general and banal sense, not as referring to some type of ideology
or analytic system. To make one more point about vocabulary: they always call the
music we make ‘spectral’. Neither Gérard Grisey nor myself are responsible for that
designation, which always struck us as insufficient. But I shall nevertheless continue
to use it, for efficiency’s sake, reminding myself all the while that other epithets—
‘serial’, ‘impressionist’, ‘neoclassical’, etc.—are equally reductive.
Reading recently some reflections on Eastern (Sino-Japanese to be precise)
thought, it occurred to me that, to some extent, they illustrated my attitude towards
the phenomenon of music. For example, the eastern approach to defining an object
might consist of successive circumscriptions of an object, rather than breaking the
object down into its constituent parts. From this eastern view comes a language based
on blocks of meaning, on superimposed impressions (if, indeed, the very notion of
causality is not overturned); a language distinct from analytic ones like the Indo-
European tongues. It is a question of ‘com-prehending’ (com-prendre) the object, in
the etymological sense, to the point of identifying with it; the archer does not aim for
the target: ‘the archer and the target are two extremes of a single process’ (Maréchal,
1989, p. 53). The artist shares this unified vision of the world; he does not try to
describe an object, but tries to reflect the sense created by its impregnation in the
world; ‘he lives the experience of the target receiving the arrow’. It seems to me that,
similarly, my material is not a musical note, nor even a sound, but the sensation
(sentiment)2 created by that note or sound. The material is not, for example, the
harmonic spectrum (an object), but the harmonicity of that spectrum (a sense) and,
further, the possibilities of transformation that it contains (the flight of the arrow). If

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150 T. Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)
the material is transformation, then the material is also form; the two notions unite.
The musical object finds itself gradually circumscribed by a global approach that will
define it through successive inward ‘zooms’.
The path of a composer who seeks both to express himself and—in the strongest
sense of the term—to create should follow a succession of intuitive and theoretical
steps that reinforce each other. We have certainly sought, after rather intuitive
phases, ‘objective’ bases to renew composition, in contrast to arbitrary systems, or
to the resignation of those who eschew all systems. Looking back, one might say it
was a question of understanding the natural rules of the organization of sounds,
then of formalizing those rules, making generalizations, and from these
observations creating a vocabulary, then a syntax, and finally—why not?—
expression.
But sounds—and, moreover, the relationships between sounds—have an acoustic
and perceptual reality that are not necessarily identical: the study of this ‘sense’ I
described above is an object of psychoacoustics and of perceptual psychology. One
could hardly be unaware of this. Take, for example, the perception of time. For all
that I was tempted, I find attempts to align our musical time with that of Hindu or
Javanese culture ultimately fallacious. The concepts of dynamic music, of fluid time,
etc. are too deeply rooted in our culture to be simply swept aside by the work of a
single person. The result is that our cultural heritage—and our apprehension of sonic
phenomena that science, as described above, has revealed to us—is for me a part of
musical material that I must use, just like the great range of sounds offered by past
and present technology.
The current explosion of possibilities within the world of sounds, and the
techniques for investigating them, naturally challenges traditional compositional
systems. Limitations disappear, pre-existing classifications lose their meaning and
phenomena once considered distinct now appear continuous. The analytical
approach (the decomposition of sound into parameters) no longer holds, and the
traditional processes of western music—combinatoriality, counterpoint of lines,
permutations, imitations, etc.—lose their power when faced with these continuous
phenomena. A generalized approach becomes necessary to attempt to understand
sound in all its complexity, all its freedom, to create the rules of organization required
by any act of composition. But these rules need not be incompatible with the nature
of sounds; we must accept the differences, the hierarchies, the anomalies, and resist,
as much as possible, reductive analysis.
The craft that takes sound as its point of departure is not a pursuit of ‘beautiful
sounds’ as is sometimes alleged. It rather tries to create a method of communicating
clearly with sonic material; timbre is simply one of sound’s most charged and
recognizable categories.3 Here lies the importance to musical discourse of
combinations of frequencies (which produce timbre). Of course, one can find
examples of spectral music with ‘beautiful sounds’, but spectral music has also
bestowed the history of music with some of its most atrocious noises. Really, it is not
the intrinsic quality of a sound that matters; what matters is introducing systems of
 Contemporary Music Review 151
hierarchy, magnetization or directionality into sonic phenomena in order to create a
musical rhetoric upon a new foundation.
Finally, it is for a certain kind of abstract music that a brilliant orchestration will
paradoxically be particularly advantageous, and sometimes necessary, for without
these trappings it will be either incomprehensible or uninteresting (think, for
example, at attempts at the serialization of timbre). On the other hand, spectral
structures often have a meaning outside of orchestration; they possess a certain
plasticity because they are themselves drawn from the internal organization of timbre.
They lend themselves as easily to sine wave realizations (by definition, of course) as to
realizations in richer instrumental timbres, which produce effects of spectral
multiplication. They are sufficiently pertinent and elastic to endure various
treatments or tortures with their identities intact. They allow for games of
memorization and recognition that are generally disallowed to combinatorial
composition, since the configurations created through the latter’s permutations are
rarely salient or memorable enough for them to work. Here we have a central
property of spectral structures: they allow for the production, at will, of timbre or
harmony without conflict or redundancy. This property is liberally exploited in works
mixing electronics with acoustic/instrumental sounds (e.g. Grisey’s Jour, contre-jour
and my Les Courants de l’Espace and Désintégrations).
We often take composers preoccupied, if not with form per se, at least with a kind
of dynamic sensibility, and contrast them with those who find immediate pleasure in
sound, but who minimize, perhaps, formal craftsmanship. At least one of these
orientations is certainly necessary. And it is the dynamic sensibility that prevails, that
redeems Beethoven’s moments of awkwardness or Xenakis’s failing ears—just as, if
we pursue the metaphor, we can immerse ourselves in the static (eternal?) time of
Messiaen to the point of losing touch with his formal austerity. As for me, I see no
reason to contrast these two conceptions, and my ideal (which I do not pretend to
always reach) is to melt them together. That is the goal of a spectral music based at
the same time on sound and process. Even better, we can extract dynamism from
sound. Or we can use a strict dynamism to construct sounds and—why not?—sonic
pleasure. With sound we can create, in sum, an architecture.

***
Our approach carries no proscription. In other words, it’s not defined negatively
against some other system of composition. For me, theory can only develop through
the observation of some practice—whether of composition or experimentation.
Theorizing (or, more modestly, systematizing a practice) may eventually give rise to
extrapolations worthy of further experimentation, from which we return to practice,
creating a true practice/theory dialectic. If, then, I am refusing anything, it is above all
the notion of any a priori refusal: the compositional system masquerading as axiom.
This does not mean that anything is possible, but that selecting one out of many
possibilities should occur in a positive manner, as a consequence of creative
processes, rather than through processes of censorship and elimination. I can
152 T. Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)
mention a simple example that I have gleaned from observing ‘serial’ scores—not
that my point is to criticize serial techniques. To structure a score around a series is
certainly a positive process (even if the original impulse is arbitrary); on the other
hand, the actual practice of many serial or serially influenced composers is quite
different. They more or less have abandoned a strict concept of the series; what is
ultimately preserved is solely a system of negation (avoiding certain intervals, certain
aggregates, certain formulations) that, in any case, will effectively assure the work’s
coherence.
I do not believe, therefore, that one can speak of a ‘spectral system’ as such, if by
that we understand a body of rules that will produce a product of a certain hue. I do
believe, however, that one can speak of a ‘spectral’ attitude. Our attitude before
musical and sonic phenomena was briefly dealt with above. The compositional
practice that is derived from this attitude constitutes, perhaps, a method that will
above all provide an orientation preventing us from losing ourselves in a universe
now without limits, without rules in the geometric sense, a universe that is no longer
quadrate, subdivided into reassuring reductive categories, but a universe of
continuity and complex interrelations. It is clear that we are very far from the
simple pursuit of a ‘new consonance’ or a search predicated solely on the vertical,
reaping sonic pleasure (which, of course, should not be prohibited either).
To properly find a place in the ‘spectral’ universe, it is not enough to align a few
harmonic series, neatly packed; above all, one must have a certain new kind of
awareness of the musical phenomenon. This stance translates into some essential
precepts (the list is not complete), including:

. thinking in terms of continuous, rather than discrete, categories (corollary: the

understanding that everything is connected);
. a global approach, rather than a sequential or ‘cellular’ one;
. organizational processes of a logarithmic or exponential, rather than linear, type;
. construction with a functional, not combinatorial, method; and
. keeping in mind the relationship between concept and perception.

The consequences of this change in perspective transcend the style of the first
generation of ‘spectral’ composers. Many younger composers have already taken hold
of these concepts and are finding new and very different results. Certain basic
principles (process, interpolation, function, even the study of spectra) are now even
assumed as self-evident by composers of many different stylistic orientations.

***
Nothing justifies the a priori division of pitch space, that legacy of tonality and
equal temperament if not, indeed, of history.4 Nothing obligates us to trap durations
within the grids that construct traditional rhythmic notation. These symbols are
behind more than a fair number of absurdities and exaggerations. They are nothing
but pale reflections of perceptible durations. Any categorization of timbres, of playing
 Contemporary Music Review 153
techniques, seems suspect to me: we must remember that the relationships between
phenomena are often more important than the phenomena themselves.
We nevertheless need tools that can handle the continuous expanses we have
discovered. Pitches, therefore, will be measured by frequency (hertz), not by
chromatic degree, and the continuum of frequencies will be controlled by the concept
of spectra. Of course, one can argue that, like temperament, the spectrum is merely a
latticework mapped over immeasurability. Any spectrum, in effect, creates grids,
scales (always of unequal steps). What is crucial, however, is that these grids are the
result of the composer’s action, rather than a presupposition.
A spectrum is a grid that allows for compositional practice and, at the same time,
allows for the material itself—the mode and the theme at the same time, to make a
risky analogy. It is in this way that the form – material distinction will become
obsolete: the content tends to identify itself with the container. Depending on one’s
point of view, the spectrum will remodel itself as melody (neumes), harmony, timbre,
even rhythm in certain extreme cases, or it will assume an ambiguous identity.
Ultimately, it is better to consider the spectrum not as a new type of grid, but as a
field of possible relationships within a group of frequencies: an ensemblist
conception, as a mathematician would say. This conception may extend to all
manifestations of the musical discourse: a spectrum is an ensemble, a sound is an
ensemble, a form, a microform, an orchestral figuration, a group of durations; all of
these are ensembles upon which ensemblist operations can be performed.
This article is not the place to examine the different species of spectra (harmonic,
inharmonic, ‘nonlinear’, etc.), nor the different operations that can be applied to
them (proliferations, metamorphoses, derivations, superpositions, interpolations,
etc.). We shall retain above all the fact that the spectrum offers at the same time
material and a frame, in the form of a network of relations among which one may
choose, but within which one must remain, if one wishes to respect the rules of the
game and, in so doing, guarantee the necessary harmonic and discursive coherences. I
should add that, unlike the harmonic fields that are so often substituted for a series,
spectra, like musical sounds, are rarely static; they themselves are subject to processes
that continually alter their aspects.
An opposite approach is possible: constructing a spectrum with the requisite
qualities to express a formal structure or a musical gesture. For this, one would have a
certain amount of tools (imitation of ‘natural’ spectra, construction of spectra
through calculations or through using functions, treating spectra with filters,
distortion, modulation, etc.). Spectra are often constructed through the development
of a formal process (see Example 1).
Obviously time must also be considered in its continuity—the unit of
measurement, then, would be the second rather than the quarter-note. The notion
of duration will become very generalized, extending from individual durations of
events, to the space between events possessing similar features and precise moments
of onset (which one generally calls rhythm), to tempo itself. The discourse will be
identical to that for pitch: the absence of a priori segmentation; the lack of subjection
154 T. Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)
to solfège figures; a refusal of complexity stemming from the superimposition of n-
tuplets or irrational meters as useless as they are arbitrary.5 The calculation of
duration resembles to a great extent the calculation of frequencies (the use of
functions, distortions, interpolations, processes, etc.).
Graphic methods can control durations more easily than frequency. Graphic
methods of controlling frequencies cannot really cope with the complexity of
interrelations at the heart of an aggregate, but durations require a lesser degree of
precision; a sense of the relationship between durations can be gleaned with a simple
glance. The graphic methods I use for duration are of two types: simple graphs of
functions drawn freehand (over given or calculated points), and spatial representa-
tions of an episode. This latter almost amounts to a map of the work, preliminary to
its definitive realization, where all the essential information, other than the purely
spectral material, is assembled.
It is in this way that a global type of approach—an essential element in the spectral
method—is designed. Ideally, all is amassed within it, and any variation in scale,
duration, frequency, density, etc. will instantly alter the overall equilibrium.
Modifications impact the overall structure incrementally, like cells in a computer
spreadsheet. There are no ‘non-temporal’ structures because nothing is imagined
outside of time.
It is certainly on the temporal level that this question of interrelations has its most
marked effects. In my music, durations are almost always tied to each other via
functions; the duration of any episode, any process, can be analysed in terms of the
sum of elementary durations. Episodes are also tied to each other via relations. Any
adjustment of an individual duration will thus have a repercussion on the global form
(e.g. evolution of a density + evolution of the average event speed, or proportions of
proportions; see Example 3), and repercussions may be projected upon other
dimensions of the discourse: melodic aspects, progressions of spectral parameters,
etc.
Through successive approaches—like through a zoom lens—structures of smaller
and smaller scale are created until the tiniest detail is reached. The fate of every
individual note is preordained within the composition. But as the work (despite
everything, and luckily) is not entirely automated, there are often choices to be made,
and particularly interesting, suggestive or inventive groupings (of pitches or
durations) to be identified. In this way, latent micro- and macroforms inherent
within the original project are brought to light. I like to imagine myself as a sculptor
in front of a block of stone that hides a form; a spectrum might, in this way, contain
forms of various dimensions that one may extract under certain conditions—with
certain tools: active filtering, selection of tempered pitches, spectral regions,
formants, spectral exploration, etc. One of the major advantages of this conception
is that the same technique can often be applied to different stages of a work’s
composition—its overall form, its sections, figurations, sonorities—and to different
dimensions of the musical sound, or to elements of the musical rhetoric (sequences,
densities, registers, thickness, neumes, etc.).6
 Contemporary Music Review 155
This compositional technique of progressing from the global level to the level of
detail is totally opposed to classical techniques of construction starting with cells.
Nevertheless, I do not think it is a question of engaging in polemics over the
legitimacy of one approach versus the other; both clearly have advantages, and in any
case, a composer’s actual practice is often more pragmatic than his discourse or
theory might suggest. And both approaches can sometimes unite, or reinforce each
other.
There is one case, however, where the global approach strikes me as necessary:
when one wishes to manipulate this new species that I have named ‘complex sounds’.
This category gathers sounds of new instrumental techniques (multiphonics, etc.),
synthetic sounds (in particular, inharmonic sounds), sounds resulting from
electronic treatments, and a large portion of percussion sounds. Complex sounds
pose serious problems for traditional composition because they elude descriptions in
terms of parameters; one either avoids them or reduces them to a single of their
various dimensions, risking unexpected effects on the musical structure. There is no
other way than to dismantle these sounds, to analyse them, to understand their
structure, and to be able to handle them as ensembles (in the mathematical sense). It
is the only way to manipulate complex objects, if one wishes to both respect them and
deeply integrate them into the musical discourse.
Otherwise, one inevitably returns to empiricism, to the arbitrary, attitudes that
must be considered paradoxical if one wishes to compose with a certain rigour. One
does not have to use multiphonics on wind instruments or synthetic sounds; but who
does not use percussion?
The lack of any real control over percussive sonorities (skin, metal, wood) often
creates inconsistent effects in otherwise perfectly written scores. Percussion parts
might be written solely along rhythmic processes, for example—the composer
forgetting that these instruments always have spectral pitches, that they are clearly
defined ‘sonic objects’, easily identifiable and limited in number. Perceiving these
objects soon cancels out the perception of duration, while the fixity of their
spectral pitches may contradict the harmonic discourse. For these reasons, I
personally manipulate these ‘sonic objects’ with great caution and considerable
discipline (as much as possible, given the imprecision of the instruments’
definitions: what is the exact frequency band of a high cymbal or a low tam-tam?
Just as microphones are defined by their response curves, the spectra of
percussion instruments should be specified, and their characteristics should be
standardized.)
Computers introduce a new dimension: interpolated, hybrid or ambiguous objects,
and continua of timbre. Even the simplest process of working with frequencies will
result in untempered aggregates and inharmonic timbres. Moreover, these sounds
can be unstable or fluctuating: to describe these sounds, one must describe processes;
for that matter, any sound, even one of a miniscule duration, is a process.
Approaching electronic or computer generated phenomena with an inadequate
compositional system frequently forces the composer to take refuge in static processes
156 T. Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)
(frozen harmonic fields, for example, which are found in so many recent ‘mixed’
works), which at least have the advantage of limiting the number of uncontrollable
proliferations (as viewed by this type of composition), but at the same time lessen the
motivation to solicit advanced technology.

***
Speaking of harmonic fields, here is an idea currently shared by several musical
styles: proposing a certain congruence between the vertical and the horizontal. Like a
series—or some type of cell that hatches chords as well as melodies—a spectrum can
be exploited both vertically and horizontally, with one possible advantage: the
possibility of creating intermediate situations, within a kind of ‘fractal’ dimension,
where perception can oscillate between various possible readings or simply surrender
to the magic of ambiguity.
But let us not stop there. We can easily skip from the idea of the spectrum to that
of the function or, more generally, the algorithm. Harmonic spectra, spectra bred of
modulations (ring modulation or frequency modulation), spectra generated by
harmonic distortions: these conform to relatively simple mathematical models. One
can imagine processes by which the parameters of these models are modified, which
would create harmonic instability or generate a number of different spectral images,
as the cinema creates movement. Similar algorithms could easily govern all aspects of
the musical discourse. The concepts of function and process are very close and could
both be grouped under the rubric of algorithm.7
Confronting such flexible material, it is obviously necessary to find criteria that
allow for the appreciation of sequences, mutations, rates of renewal, oppositions and
similarities. Without a grid that applies to all manipulated objects, the problem is not
easily solved. We would have little chance, for example, to find identical frequencies
in two spectra—in other words, identical values in two lists of data calculated by a
function. If we want to establish such types of comparisons, we must resort to
approximations, consider effects of ‘critical bandwidth’, and exploit our charmingly
imprecise faculties of perception. It becomes absolutely necessary to introduce the
concept of hierarchy to perform these classifications from harmonicity to
inharmonicity, from the smooth to the rough, from the ordered to the unordered.
We should remember the specificity of each relationship of frequencies. Two simple
examples: the octave has powerful properties, both acoustic and cultural in origin,
that we must acknowledge—but is this reason to prohibit it? An interval is just a
relationship between frequencies; however, mathematically, a/b does not equal b/a.
One would never call an interval and its inversion identical, a little detail that could
undermine a good number of the composers’ and theoreticians’ tricks. To
acknowledge differences is not to cast judgement. ‘Harmonic’ is not a synonym of
‘consonant’; ‘ordered’ is not a synonym of ‘military march’. One finds equilibrium
within both relatively orderly situations (harmonicity or periodicity) and their exact
opposites, like noisy sounds or rhythmicized noise, of which one definition would be
‘integral disorder’. Any intermediate situation carries with it, to some extent, a
 Contemporary Music Review 157
disequilibrium, that introduces the phenomena of attraction and dynamism
discussed above; composition consists, on one level, in managing this disequilibrium.
Exploring these hierarchies brings up what I call the ‘vectorization’ of the
musical discourse, that all processes have a trajectory and imply a directionality
(sens), if not a meaning (signification)—the listener is well aware that he is being
taken somewhere, and that there is someone in the driver’s seat. This vectorization
inevitably creates feelings of tension and relaxation, of progression and stagnation;
it plays on the comfort of the expected and the pleasure of surprise, whether
through threshold phenomena or through subtle U-turns in underlying general
trends—in a word, it creates the dynamism of the musical discourse. It is this
aspect—not compositional trends or any stylistic fashions, not superficial
revolutions and sterile polemics—that speaks directly to the cognitive categories
of the western listener. It is ultimately on this level that I would like to compose.
Indeed, if the analogy of a compositional language (‘écriture musicale’) means
anything, then it is from this level that I hope to draw my vocabulary and syntax.
Modelling is a great help in freeing music from the quicksand of note-by-note
composition, just as generalized graphic notation, rather than solfège notation,
helps in sketching a work: ideographs, say, rather than alphabetical characters. I
believe that only the computer can help us pursue this direction; only the computer
will grant us the necessary degree of freedom to maintain the conceptual work with
the attitude we want, freeing ourselves from subaltern duties, helping us govern the
networks of interrelations.
The development of both conceptual and practical tools forms the condition for a
deepening of the technique of spectral composition as it has been defined here. To
directly compose a process, its variations, its complications, quickly exceeds the
capacities of the human spirit. I am very aware of the fact that up until now we have
remained at a relatively elementary stage of using these techniques; the wish to be
understood has led us to very direct and immediate processes; we had to experiment,
and perhaps also we had something to prove. We did, however, face the question of
predictability early enough; of the eventual necessity to free ourselves, at least at the
right moment, from the domination of overly directional processes; to introduce
ideas of variation or of ornamentation.
I started by using aleatoric processes and processes of limited permutation, to vary
at least the aspect of the processes. I found multiplying functions lent more
interesting aspects to curves I used (by combining, for example, sinusoidal and
exponential functions into an algorithm that determined the removal of components
of the bell sonority synthesized by the orchestra at the beginning of Gondwana).
Introducing randomness in order to ‘humanize’ mechanical processes is one of many
elementary possibilities in computer-assisted composition. This ‘aleatorization’ can
even extend to the synthesis of sounds themselves, to bring them more to life. Here is
another example of a process brought to bear on both the macro and micro levels of
the score. Randomness, when its rates and effects are controlled, softens processes
without subverting them.
158 T. Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)
Classical procedures of permutation (like those Messiaen often used) tend to
produce static results: constituent elements tend to turn in on themselves. But
permutation of elements with an algorithmically derived series (e.g. exchanging
certain values, two by two) will introduce an element of surprise or suspense while
still adhering to the process’s directionality. Example 1 illustrates such a restricted
permutation of spectral distortions. Algorithmic or combinatorial procedures can
themselves be written into the algorithm, at least when the elements are relatively
simple. In Désintégrations, I often used this technique to control the order of ‘wave
tables’ (these tables describe the components of spectra or the timings of micro-
events; see parts III and IX of the score). From a set of general data (attack times of a
sound mass, the type of permutation, the degree of randomness, etc.) the computer
performed a detailed realization that was directly transmitted to the synthesis
program. The computer calculations were then used to write the instrumental score.
However, when it is a question of reordering series of spectra, as in the above
example, the issue becomes quite delicate, since there is no way to predict how
interesting the spectral/harmonic progressions resulting from these complex
calculations will be: at least not with our present ‘spectral’ technology.
The superimposition of processes must be approached with similar caution.
Processes governing at different scales may be superposed; more rarely, the
combination of algorithms governs all aspects of the discourse at the same time. In
these cases we have a true counterpoint of musics, and we know how difficult it is to
realize this. On the other hand, limited overlappings of processes are common.8 They
often produce zones of indecision or rupture, liquescent or eruptive configurations
like the shifting of tectonic plates. Such phenomena are produced when a process is
carried out to its ultimate extreme: the material is then utterly transformed.9 This
replicates the trajectory already described: observation . . . generalized modelling . . .
algorithmic development . . . engenderment of new objects.
Nevertheless, procedures of complication, generalization, of going to extremes,
will increasingly distance us from natural modes of perception upon which we
depend for a legitimate starting point. Interpolations, distortions, curves of various
kinds; the manifold types of process used to map out transitions, to create
directionality, to realize concepts or, simply, ideas or musical desires—all of these
distance us from the initial postulates. Is this inspiring or alarming? Ultimately, we
are beset with the same problems that face the combinatorial composer.
Combinatorial calculations in no way guarantee musical values in themselves
(although they can convey a certain vigorousness of process—like the cragginess of
the late Beethoven quartets, or, in a more general sense, the astringency of
dissonance and passing tones in tonal music).
If one wishes to operate upon selections, one must revert to the arbitrary—or to
intuition, to the composer’s expertise. I admit that I often tamper with the results of
my semi-automatic procedures by eliminating a part here or there. With processes of
interpolation or growth of a parameter, I calculate more data than I need so that I can
eliminate certain steps that might conflict with my basic idea.
 Contemporary Music Review 159
Developing one’s method by this kind of elaboration, by modelling all gestures, by
approaching limits, can end in contradicting the initial impulse, especially as
concerns perception. The method, in other words, harbours the seed of its own self-
destruction. But this is true for any system. My hope is that this method is sufficiently
open, and that its lack of interdictions promotes an internal growth. But I do not
want to make predictions about the development of a praxis and put myself forward
as a theoretical legislator. Theory should serve to free us from habits, from needless
repetition, reflexes and tics; it should not sterilize an approach. It should not justify
useless complexity. Ultimately, the more I grow as a composer the more I value
simplicity, the more complex simplicity appears, the more I see how simple it is to be
‘complex’. Often, after long days of seeking a musical solution spent by complicating
it, varying it, superimposing it, distorting it, perhaps masking certain weaknesses in a
facile complexity—at the end of all this, I remorselessly eliminate all these gratuitous
detours and the solution appears: simple, like any solution, but so costly in terms of
creative energy. In my music, I am proudest of moments like these: when all is
answered with a few sounds.
This is why it seems to be more important to assume a new attitude able to face (at
least for a while) the surprises that the development of musical technique surely has
in store for us, rather than a doctrine that, like any doctrine, must be doomed from
the start (and doctrines seem to have shorter and shorter lifespans these days).

***
An excess of theory or ‘complexity’ ultimately places too much importance to the
written score and to its graphical aspect. I even remember a (celebrated) composer at
a masterclass at the Royan festival who spoke of filling a page of staff paper until it
pleased him visually. Even without going to this extreme, we do have a tendency to
confuse the musical work with the score, to confuse the land with its map. Remember
Borges: if the map is to completely represent the land, they must be congruent to the
last detail. The map would be the land. Even now, we do not have the technique for
such a representation. Even for tape music, where the score is the instrument, there
are differences (the hall’s acoustics, the quality of the speakers). We can always wait
for direct neural stimulation, of course.
In the meantime, the score is still only a symbolic representation, an
approximation, a coded message for the musicians, but not itself a musical
phenomenon. In the extreme case, it is only tablature (e.g. Mâche’s Tempora, for
three samplers, or my Tellur for guitar). We find ourselves confronted with an
apparent dilemma: precision of performance or notation? In fact, there is no
precision at all. Creating and then hearing a work merely entails a parade of
distortions: from the idea to the eventual form; from the form to the score; from the
score to the performance; from the performance to the ear.
Notation is particularly problematic when it comes to rhythm. A series of
durations—calculated in units of time, not noteheads, and derived from some kind of
process—might be fascinating to the eye, might lend itself to further manipulation
160 T. Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)
(through the intermediary of a sequencer, for example). And it will not be impossible
to capture it in notation, with temporal divisions or fragmentation, complex
measures, tempo changes. But the finished score will be all but unplayable, especially
by an orchestra—or at least the music the musicians perform will be considerably
removed from the initial idea. If, however, I simplify the score (if I increase, in other
words, the factor of approximation) while keeping in mind performance practices, I
shall end up with a result closer to the original idea. It is a paradox: an excess of
notational precision will erode the message it is meant to convey.
These are not new problems. The framing of musical ideas within an imperfect
and intransigent notational system has long been counterbalanced by interpreters
who know how to recreate the original ideas behind the score (I am thinking, for
example, of Debussy’s Preludes). This question becomes crucial for ‘spectral’ music,
where timbre plays such an important role, from the timbre of individual
instruments and the way they are played, to synthetic timbres created through
fusion that depend upon a certain context. When a musician does not understand
his role and simply performs ‘note by note’ without thinking of the global level in
which he plays a part (or at least of the overall sound he helps to form), we have
reached a true impasse.
Neither the score nor the performance, then, is the musical work. They are just
representations of the work at different degrees of accuracy. It is within the
sketches—the graphic schemas I evoked above, listings, algorithms, etc.—that we can
rediscover the vestiges of the ‘ideal score’. The essential thing in the journey to the
written score is the preservation of relationships. One must find a homothetic
relationship between the perceived music, the performed music and the written score
without hoping for an exact equivalence. We also take into the account the ear’s
mechanism of auto-correction, whether physiological or cultural. These mechanisms
exist for tonal music; they allow us to ignore the torpor of the seventh row of violins,
to endure the nebulous intonation of opera singers, to put up with eccentric tempi of
conductors. Experience has proven to me that auto-correction exists for spectral
music as well; this fact justifies our use of approximations of pitches and durations as
we approach the written score. I am not sure if this is the case for all types of music,
which raises certain questions.
To rediscover the ideal score simply by looking at the written one is not always
easy. We need certain clues for a deep comprehension of the work. Of course this can
be said for any music, but it is relatively easy to identify a theme, a subject, a cell, a
series; it is somewhat more delicate, although not impossible, to identify a spectral
generation or the algorithm of a process.

***
To take note of these successive degradations of the message is to address the
problem of communication itself. To ignore the aural results of the composition act
is, for me, a refusal to communicate. And, if composers no longer communicate, it
is no surprise that the concert halls are empty. I willingly admit the validity of a
 Contemporary Music Review 161
stance where it is the concept that matters; but in this case, why not go all the way
and drop both the concert and the score? Rather than writing for 40 harps and 40
pianos, thereby adding to his already numerous difficulties, Berlioz was content to
describe the idea (the ‘Euphonia’) in literary form. And, rather than writing novels,
a practice that bored him, Borges simply wrote fictional critiques of them that
expressed their essential ideas. Truly conceptual art should not move past the
conceptual.
Choosing a mode of communication is not without aesthetic consequences.
Devotees of neo-romanticism (the ‘new simplicity’) write for the classical orchestra
public, while those writing ‘paper music’ address juries of international composition
contests before anyone else. One might ask whether in such extreme cases there is any
real communication between the composer and the target audience. In the case of
neo-romanticism, the code for communication becomes identical to the musical
material itself (one could argue much the same thing for rock and its derivatives). In
the other case, that of ‘paper music’, both communication and code have
disappeared; all we are left with is the crafting of symbols, even just of graphics,
disconnected to any aural application. It is like Parkinson’s Law (with enough
employees, a company can keep itself fully occupied with internal administration
requiring no contact with the outside world): with sufficient conceptual or
combinatorial proliferation, the score-object gains self-sufficiency and no longer
needs sonic reality. It is, in other words, nothing (except perhaps a package to be
FedEx-ed to the juries mentioned above) to be commented upon, or imitated.
For me, music exists only at the moment it is heard; but it is often heard
symbolically, by the composer, for example, at the moment he conceives it, and
then over the long chain of distortions that finally lead to its public reception. It
seems essential to me that this homothetic relationship between the composer’s
concepts of the ‘ideal’ score and its audible result is maintained. This is where
acoustic and cultural factors become important, even leaving their mark on the
compositional technique. We must resist the illusion that our public is a universal
one: it is a Western one, built up over centuries of musical practice. It should be
reasonably open and alert, if communication is to be established. I hope, however,
that it is not limited to our circle of colleagues and international juries. But I also
hope to be able to express myself freely, without heeding conventions, prejudices
and conditions. And this hope implies certain consequences, raises certain
questions.
Can the unknown be heard? How do we introduce the new? A politics of
tabula rasa is illusory: we cannot ignore the past without reverting to
Neanderthalism. On the contrary, I think that what history has bequeathed
us—in other words, our culture, our mental functioning—far from imposing
restrictions, forms part of our musical material just as much as known or
imagined sounds, and can be integrated with every degree of freedom into a new
discourse. But we must remember, as well, that the search for the new, the
rejection of systems viewed as outdated, ruptures—these also form part of our
162 T. Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)
culture, as opposed to many others where stability is the rule and the musician’s
margin of creativity is strictly delimited by a secular practice. It is this very duality
that should allow us to create a new musical discourse with absolute freedom and
intelligibility, without nostalgia or neuroses.

Example 1. Modelling and Generalizing an Observation. Calculations of Durations

and Permutations10 in Désintégrations
At figure X of Désintégrations, after having followed a complex process that began at
figure IX, the music converges upon an E2 repeated by the ff trombone. After a
rocking movement, during which an accented G2 (resulting from the same process
and played by the bass clarinet) reluctantly disappears, the trombone stays on alone.
The tape then plays a defective (filtered) spectrum that emerges from the
trombone’s sound. Actually the spectrum’s fundamental is E1; the trombone plays its
second harmonic (Figure 1).
As elsewhere in the piece, this spectrum will be sustained and progressively
distorted. This particular distortion was drawn from observations of piano spectra:
analysis has shown that the piano’s sound is not perfectly harmonic; its partials are
higher than harmonic theory affirms, and a partial’s deviation is a factor of its
number. (This explains much regarding the instrument’s brilliant sonority—its
characteristic sound—and much regarding the piano’s repertoire.)
With a mathematical function, we can create a model of this phenomenon. I used a
power function (y = axb) rather than an exponential one, whose ascension would be
too rapid.
In the piano’s case, distortion is quite faint (b is barely above 1). But we can
extrapolate from this by increasing the value of b, creating a whole new series of
inharmonic spectra.
Rather than working directly with the function’s parameters, however, I prefer a
more intuitive and musical approach to the distortion process. I therefore set up
reference points, like plotting the evolution of a single harmonic. In this example, I
chose the 12th harmonic and decided, to control the overall process, that it would
ascend in steps of a quarter-tone. Software then calculated the parametric variations

Figure 1 Filtered spectrum.

 Contemporary Music Review 163
in the function that would provide this result, and finally it calculated the spectra
themselves (Figure 2).
In these examples the partials of the spectra are approximated to the nearest
quarter-tone. Since they are played on the tape, approximation was not really
necessary (the computer produced the exact frequencies directly from its
calculations). But the approximations helped the instrumental writing, which here
is rather restrained, to reinforce certain formants.
The rhythm underlying the spectrum’s rate of change is determined by a curve of
acceleration; this function is of the same type as the one controlling distortion.
At the end of the process, tension has reached a breaking point, and a ‘threshold
effect’ occurs: the music flips into another process. The first spectrum of figure XI
was derived through a process akin to the ‘linear regression’ of a statistician: while
close to the spectrum at figure X, it is harmonic, and thus much lighter; it suggests
both continuity and a sudden change in hue (Figure 3).
Further generalizing the idea of spectral distortion (or for that matter the idea of
constructing spectra through a function), we can abandon any reference to
instruments; in the last example, the trombone’s presence created the impression
that the process of distortion was referring to instrumental sonorities. At figure VII of
Désintégrations, we hear a series of seven spectra derived from an entirely arbitrary
process of distortion. The reference points of this distortion are the 3rd and 21st
harmonics that evolve by half-step and quarter-tone respectively, producing a
translation and progressive compression of spectra (Figure 4).

Figure 2 Progresssive distortion controlled by the ascension of the 12th harmonic.

Figure 3 Spectrum used to produce a sudden change in hue, as figure XI.

164 T. Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)

Figure 4 Translation and progressive compression of spectra at figure VII.

Each spectrum, heard on the tape, moves through space (spatial vibrato) with
increasing rapidity, following this curve (values are in Hz):

0.2326 1.2534 2.861 4.8 7 9.4 12

The number of oscillations follows this evolution:

1 3 4 9 3 6 45 (ascending curve, in irregular values)

By multiplying the number of oscillations by the period (the inverse of the value in
Hz), we obtain the duration, in seconds, of each spectrum:

4.3 2.4 1.5 1.9 3.3 2.8 3.8

By combining the two curves, we can see a new profile has been created
(decreasing, then increasing irregularly).
This explanation probably does not correspond to the actual composition of this
passage (I forgot the order of the operations), but shows the interrelations as one
observes them.
The seven spectra are not, however, ordered in terms of their distortions, but are
slightly permuted: 1 4 5 2 6 3 7. This reordering brings a bit of
unpredictability to the sequence while preserving its general direction.
Next, the ambits of the spectra were moulded to create an ‘accordion’ effect. To
preserve a similar density for each spectrum, it was necessary to filter certain
components, or fill in certain spectral zones, producing the final result shown in
Figure 5.
 Contemporary Music Review 165

Figure 5 Chord sequence at figure VIII.

Example 2. Interrelations in 13 Couleurs du Soleil Couchant

Upon first listening, 13 Couleurs du Soleil Couchant might seem like a fairly
‘impressionist’ work, but in fact it is a highly predetermined and calculated
composition. Almost the entire work stems from an initial project materialized by
similar curves governing frequencies, durations and pulsations. The 13 colours of the
title correspond to 13 generative intervals which are narrower the higher their
registers (with a few exceptions) (Figure 6).
Next, we can trace the design shown in Figure 7. It was necessary to add an
introductory sequence, not shown in this figure, based on a single tone (E6): an interval
of the unison. The tools of control are often of a statistical nature (‘average pulsation’);
this means that the directions of the processes are always controlled, but that certain
freedoms can exist at the detail level, almost like ornamentations—or that other
processes can interfere at the local level.
The intervals are managed so that they lead from one to another along different
types of linkages or by spectral proliferation. Figure 7 illustrates the harmonic
evolution from section 1 to section 3. At figure 1A, the first interval has not yet
appeared; the cello, playing alto sul ponticello, decompose the E-flat 4 into a harmonic
spectrum (highlighting the strong presence of the 5th harmonic, G6, that anticipates
the G5 of the first interval).
At figure 1B, the clarinet decomposes the E-flat once again, this time in a much clearer
way, to produce G5. The violin breaks away from the G, gliding gently a quarter-tone
away; amplitude (‘ring’) modulation between the G quarter-sharp and the E-flat
produces the new frequency B4 and the addition of that B4 to the G quarter-sharp 5
produces the E6; the B forms, with the E-flat, the new generative interval (d et s
represent the differential and additive tones respectively).
The same games of modulation are played out in section 2. Here, the piano
approximates and accumulates some of the frequencies present. They could be
166 T. Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)

Figure 6 The 13 generative intervals.

Figure 7 Harmonic evolution from section 1 to section 3 (there is an error in section 1 of

this figure: the final E6 is the additional resulting sound from the combination of the G
quarter-sharp 5 and the B4).

considered, then, approximate harmonics over the fundamental F1 also played by the
piano.
The third interval is produced from the piano’s chord; we once again use
modulation (3a) or harmonic relation (3b), etc., to derive material.
The writing of the instrumental parts can fully organize themselves with a
framework rigorously defined as in the above description. Melodic figurations, for
example, make use of the frequencies at hand while respecting the pulsation value of
the particular section.

Example 3. Schemes of Proportions and Evolutions of Parameters in Gondwana,

for Orchestra, rehearsal letter F
Here the music follows the model of frequency modulated sounds, whose spectra
develop by augmenting the modulation index. The music essentially consists of a
series of waves calculated by frequency modulation; the form of the series is produced
by varying the modulation index, which creates figurations (Figure 8).
 Contemporary Music Review 167

Figure 8 Figurations created by varying the index of modulation.

Figure 9 Frequency modulation ‘waves’.

168 T. Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)
The waves occur in pairs. Their durations decrease until figure E and then begin to
grow again. The length of the second of each pair of waves continues to grow,
infringing on the first, until the two are nearly fused. The sonority of the first wave

Table 1 Evolution of parameters in Gondwana, rehearsed Letter F.

length of pair relation 2nd wave/pair length of wave modulator (hz) index

a 31.6 0.57 13.6 7.88 2

a’ 18 12,75 4
b 25.7 0.591 10.5 17.92 6
b’ 15.2 22.49 8
c 18.2 0.615 7 27.36 10
c’ 11.2 32.33 11
d 9.4 0.627 3.5 37.10 12
d’ 5.9 41.97 13
e 4.9 0.633 1.8 46.84 14
e’ 3.1 ’’ ’’
f 7.5 / / 51.71 15
g 14.5 / / 56.58 16
h 23 / / ’’ ’’
i 37 / / ’’ ’’

e and e’ share the same modulator: the fusion between the two waves of each pair begins in this
manner. Starting at f the two waves are almost completely fused, the second wave becoming a sort
of echo of the first. h and i use the spectrum of g which is progressively filtered.

Figure 10 Melodic line of the French horn in Vues Aériennes inscribed within a harmonic
spectrum and three distortions of it.
 Contemporary Music Review 169
tends towards the resonance of brass instruments, while that of the second
approaches the resonance of tremolo strings. At the same time, the modulator
increases by steps of 4.87 Hz and the index by steps of 1 or 2. The carrier, embodied
in the held tone of the horn, is fixed at C quarter-sharp 4 (Table 1) (Figure 9).

Example 4. Rhythmic and Melodic Elaboration in Vues Aériennes, for Horn,

Violin, Cello and Piano, Section IIIB
This section uses a harmonic spectrum that recurs throughout the piece and three
distortions of it. The horn’s melodic line is inscribed within these spectra; the strings

Figure 11 Melodic line of the French horn (continued).

Figure 12 Musical transcription of the line.

170 T. Murail (trans. Joshua Cody)
respond by shifting the spectra by an octave; the piano plays the horn’s harmonics in
the extreme high register. The horn part was determined by designing a curve
evoking a sinusoidal function of variable amplitude and ‘frequency’ (time is on the x
axis, the partial numbers are on the y axis). The principal notes correspond to the
extremities of the undulations and to intermediate points in increasing number on
each ascending or descending portion. They are animated by groups of appoggiatura
whose number of elements depends also, with some irregularities, on the design of
the curves. Durations follow the same scheme. The waves tend to increase in both
dimensions, but as the number of intermediate points increases the durations become
on average shorter; they are longer when they correspond to the troughs of the waves.
To counteract the rigidity of the process, the fragment of the wave that corresponds
to ‘distortion 1’ was reversed along the temporal axis. The numbers correspond to the
partial number of each principal note (Figures 10, Figures 11 and 12).

Notes
[1] Editor’s note: This article was originally published in French as ‘Questions de cible’.
[2] Very generally, that which is sensed, in other words, perceived and interpreted.
[3] Even the least musically minded listeners are capable of recognizing an instrument. Most of
today’s pop music plays with timbre above all; what creates a successful rock group is not
melodic, harmonic or rhythmic content (this is generally hackneyed), but a characteristic
‘sound’.
[4] It is possible to turn my position vis-à-vis culture’s influence on perception against me and
argue that temperament is not arbitrary because it forms part of our collective musical
consciousness. Studies have shown, however, that non-tempered aggregates (at least those
produced through the spectral method!) are not perceived as ‘abnormal’, but often appear
more ‘correct’ than their approximations in semitones. The resistance to non-tempered pitch
space is found to the greatest extent among professional musicians who would prefer not to
question their education.
[5] The uncontrolled use of ‘irrational’ values yields results that are in fact unperceptible (e.g. if
the quarter-note equals sixty, the difference between two-fifths of a beat and three-eighths of
a beat is equal to 0.025 second). Our perception of durations is in fact very inaccurate and
totally relative; by contrast, we can perceive extremely tiny differences of frequency
(differences as small as one-thirtieth of a tone!). Moreover many musicians have perfect
pitch.
[6] The old utopia of ‘integral serialism’ (congruence of the microcosm and the macrocosm,
congruence of the treatments applied to different parameters) finds itself realized here, in a
different and unexpected way, according to a generative logic and with perceptible results—
allowing for communication.
[7] Let us take a very simple example to illustrate this point. A harmonic spectrum follows the
relation h = fr (where h is the harmonic, f is the fundamental, and r is the overtone number; h
and f are expressed in hertz (Hz), r is an integer). This is a function. Let us imagine a process
of filtering: we keep one out of every three harmonics starting with the fifth overtone and
ending at the twenty-third. This filter is very easy to code in a number of programming
languages by writing a reiterated loop. By doing this, we have created an algorithm. Now, if
we imagine progressively eliminating the excluded harmonics over time, we are imagining a
process. If this elimination can be captured in a model, we can describe it through a very
simple (if I can use the word) complication of the preceding algorithm.
 Contemporary Music Review 171
[8] See, for example, Gondwana, bar 9 after letter E, where one process slowly ends while another
starts; the two overlap for quite some time. The granular sounds of E9 begin to be articulated
individually, then are gradually enlarged or explored as individual sounds. This process is
embodied within a sequence of more and more languid orchestral structures. Within the
gaps between these structures appears a brass pitch (C 1/4 tone sharp), around which forms a
series of expanding waves of frequency modulation that eventually overtake everything. The
processes that govern these waves are analysed in Example 3. The F harmonics of the flutes
(F10 – 11) form the last vestige of this process.
[9] This kind of metamorphosis is well known to fans of frequency modulation, which produces
the phenomenon of foldover.
[10] Examples are drawn from Désintégrations, for tape and 17 musicians.

Reference
Marechal, I.-A. (1989). ‘Miroir-Miroir’. Phréatique, 48, 52 – 57.
Contemporary Music Review
Vol. 24, No. 2/3, April/June 2005, pp. 173 – 180

Scelsi, De-composer
Tristan Murail (translated by Robert Hasegawa)

Introduction
In 1983, I wrote a piece called Désintégrations for tape and instrumental ensemble.
The goal of the piece was, in fact, to integrate computer-synthesized electronic
sounds with the instrumental sounds of the ensemble as closely as possible. But to
realize this goal, the instrumental sounds first had to be ‘disintegrated’—reduced
to their elemental components—then recomposed, synthesizing the elements into
new aggregates to produce, as desired, either timbre or harmony (depending on
the weighting of amplitudes and the type of listening suggested by the
context).
This almost ‘scientific’ approach to composition (though always with the goal of
creating a rich and communicative musical discourse) may seem far removed from
Scelsi’s musical aesthetic. However, ‘Scelsi’s decision, essentially, was to de-compose
the sound into its spectrum, and not to compose (cum-ponere) sounds with one
another’ (Castagnoli, 1987/1992, p. 259).
‘De-composing the sound into its spectrum’ is a good description of the departure
point for the compositional method now called ‘spectral’. Though spectral music is
very different from Scelsi’s in its sonority and structure, they share at least one trait: a
similar attitude towards the phenomenon of sound.
The connection between my music (and that of other spectral composers) and
Scelsi’s lies in this attitude, more than in a comparable style or aesthetic;
the compositional techniques are completely different, except for a few
superficial similarities (microtones, attention to dynamics, continuous
processes).
But this attitude, shared by Scelsi, the ‘spectral’ composers, and many other
contemporary composers of all kinds, is crucially important. It is a complete change
of viewpoint, a wholesale reversal of the western musical tradition, which for
centuries has been based on combination and superposition. We no longer seek to
com-pose, juxta-pose, or super-pose, but rather to de-compose, or even, more simply,
to pose the sonic material (poser le son1).

ISSN 0749-4467 (print)/ISSN 1477-2256 (online) ª 2004 Taylor & Francis Ltd
DOI: 10.1080/07494460500154822
174 T. Murail (trans. R. Hasegawa)

The Invisible Border

Posing sonic material, simply offering it to the listener’s hearing, is the primordial
sonic gesture, the om of the yogi. The American composers Terry Riley and LaMonte
Young (a friend of Scelsi’s) have tried to recapture this gesture (in my opinion,
naively and without success), as have vocal groups experimenting with the
Mongolian techniques of diffracting harmonic partials. (The Harmonic Choir of
David Hykes may be the best known, but this ensemble was preceded by the Rome-
based group Prima Materia, whose members associated regularly with Scelsi.)
Musique concrete and electronic music have tried as well—both have usually failed
because the sonic objects presented were too simple or too artificial. John Cage also
made such an attempt, inviting us to contemplate a sound as a Zen meditator would
contemplate the rising moon, or the trail of a rake in a gravel bed.
Scelsi was too deeply grounded in contradictory traditions to fall into these obvious
traps. Unlike Cage (who wanted to break with tradition) and the minimalist and
electronic composers (who generally lacked classical training), Scelsi had an intimate
knowledge of western music. He was familiar with the chromatic language of Scriabin,
with the neoclassical style of Malipiero and others, and above all with 12-tone music. It
seems that he experimented with all of these styles; in any case, the few works that
survive from Scelsi’s earliest period show a mixture of influences with a dodecaphonic
substratum.2 We know that all these musical styles eventually became problematic for
him, probably at the same time that he faced a personal existential crisis. A composer’s
techniques must correspond with his expressive needs, or else he quickly falls into
artificiality or academicism. Scelsi, however, understood that the solution to this
problem could not be a simple one. It would have been easy for him, steeped as he was
in the influence and teachings of the East, to try to follow their musical practices: to
adopt the slow evolution of the Indian raga or the abrupt melismas of Japanese Noh,
the complex rhythms of Bali, or the vocal techniques of the Tibetan monks.
I do not mention these non-European examples by chance; one can find, here and
there in Scelsi’s work, some reflection of these musics. But, though the East may
provide inspiration, it is pointless to imitate an eastern mindset, which can only have
value in the context of a specific culture, and still more worthless to ape the cultural
manifestations of this mindset. As Scelsi was fond of saying, ‘Rome is at the border
between the East and the West.’ In other words, the Western tradition is for him at
least as important as the influence of the East.
His solution was a radical change of viewpoint, a true revolution in thought. Such
‘cultural revolutions’ are typically Western phenomena—they make sense only in the
context of Western culture. Thus, Scelsi’s rethinking of the compositional process
(and of musical listening itself) belongs in this revolutionary tradition. Perhaps he
participates in the true musical revolution of this century. Schoenberg, in the final
analysis, will have changed nothing: his compositional technique is nothing more
than a negative image of the academic tradition. The real revolutionaries are those
who have fundamentally changed our relationship to sound. And for a revolution to
 Contemporary Music Review 175
have a bright future, it must be constructive and positive, not defined as a set of
taboos (even if these taboos are discreetly called ‘constraints’).
One thinks, of course, of the other ‘reconstructors’ of this century, of Varèse and
Ligeti, not forgetting all we owe to the experience of electroacoustic and computer
music. Scelsi evidently had no scientific pretensions, which did not stop him from
using avant-garde tools (for the 1950s) to help in the compositional process: an
archaic tape recorder and two Ondiolines3. However, the important point is that a
revolution in musical thought occurred almost simultaneously, starting from
different premises, but leading to coincident results: on one hand, electroacoustic
experiments, anticipated by Varèse, which led to Ligeti’s re-evaluation of the
traditional orchestra (keeping in mind the extraordinary premonitions of Friedrich
Cerha4); on the other, Scelsi’s intuitions, with no recognizable precursors, like a
message from beyond. The coincidence itself is significant; the evolution of western
music had arrived at a point of blockage where something truly new had to emerge,
not just a simple patching-up of traditional techniques.

Silence Is Not Golden

The Quattro Pezzi per Orchestra (su una nota sola), four pieces each based on a single
note, are a radical product of this evolution. Were they mere provocation, or the
result of a compelling necessity? At almost the same time, Cage composed his 4’33’’ of
silence. Historically, these two pieces seem inevitable: we had the monochrome
canvases of Yves Klein, the bicolours of Rothko, the book made up of blank pages.
The silent piece, or the piece on a single sound, was clearly due.
But in Cage’s case, this step was essentially negative: the culmination of a particular
crisis of musical aesthetics, the endpoint of a passé Dadaism; an inevitable ‘work’, I
repeat, and one that had to be ‘written’ by someone. It was Cage . . . it must have
seemed like a good idea at the time.
The Quattro Pezzi, on the other hand, seem positive. They are not merely
provocative—they have something important to offer. They are the departure point
for a fruitful, ongoing adventure in composition and perception. The Quattro Pezzi
are de-composed and re-composed. The almost complete abandonment of the
harmonic dimension allowed Scelsi to confront other dimensions and to concentrate
the attention of the listener on new sonic refinements. One can compare this attitude
to that of the minimalists. In Steve Reich’s music, the renunciation of the timbral and
harmonic parameters obliged the listener to concentrate on the evolving rhythms, or
rather on the evolution of combinatorial figures made up of very simple elements.
This renunciation of timbre and harmony may be aesthetically necessary: when Reich,
and especially his followers Philip Glass and John Adams, try to reintroduce
harmony, it inevitably leads to insipid colours, modulations à la César Franck and
chord progressions from the harmony textbooks of the Belle Époque.
For Scelsi, the principal object of composition then becomes what he calls the
‘depth’ of the sound. It is primarily a question of working with timbre, taken in the
176 T. Murail (trans. R. Hasegawa)
broadest sense: the global timbre of the orchestra as a whole. The composer is thus
concerned with dynamics, densities, registers, internal dynamism and the timbral
variations and micro-variations of each instrument: attacks, types of sustain, spectral
modifications and alterations of pitch and intensity. String instruments are obviously
ideal for such writing, because of their great flexibility and fine control of timbre, free
of the difficulties of wind technique.
Scelsi’s obsession with sound places him in an important movement in the history
of Western music. Timbre, at first entirely ignored in composition, is eventually
recognized as an autonomous phenomenon, then as a whole separate parameter;
finally, it submerges, or rather encompasses the other dimensions of musical
discourse. Thus, minute sonic fluctuations (vibrato, glissandi, spectral changes,
tremolos) become not mere ornaments to a text, but the text itself.
This phenomenon is not limited to ‘art’ music. The same development is found in
rock music, where the ‘sound’ takes precedence over melodic, harmonic and
rhythmic substance (to the extent that these exist). Timbre is one of the most
sensitive categories of musical perception—of auditory perception in general, since it
is even at the base of spoken language. Our timbral perception is so acute that we can
immediately identify the sound of a familiar voice on the telephone, even though it
has been drastically transformed by the filtering effect of the telephone speaker.
The increasing focus on timbre also connects to non-European musics, where
melodic or timbral ornaments are often considered an integral part of the discourse,
or even an element of the modal system (as in Vietnam). In the Indian classical
tradition, one could even say that the musical substance of a piece is nothing but the
elaborate ornamentation of an underlying structure: the raga.
Certainly, Scelsi thought of these musics while defining his new style. There is thus
a genuine relationship to the East, but a relationship that has been rethought, re-
imagined in the mind of the composer. Thus, Pierre Menard rewrote Don Quixote. . .
(Borges, 1956).

An Inner Mongolia
The titles of Scelsi’s works often evoke a mythical (or rather, imaginary) inner Orient.
According to the composer, titles such as Khoom5 or Igghur evoke a secret Mongolia
of the spirit.
Some years ago, Salvador Dali made a short film called Visions de Haute-Mongolie.6
It showed abstract images that looked almost natural: geological shapes, patches of
colour with blurred contours, dunes, lakes, lifeless rocks. Dali commented on these
colourful, hazy forms in his careful Catalan accent, describing an imaginary world
with his painter’s eye: ‘the great tyrant of the Mongols’, ‘hallucinogenic mush-
rooms’—a surreal landscape. But the ‘Haute-Mongolie’ was in fact an entirely inner
Mongolia—at the end of the film it was revealed that all the images came from vastly
enlarged photographs of the surface of a pen, where the metal had been corroded by
acid. A striking parallel can be made between Dali’s double exploration—the
 Contemporary Music Review 177
exploration of physical matter, the exploration of the imagination—and Scelsi’s: the
exploration of the physicality of sound, combined with a similar fascination with an
imaginary Asia.
This imaginary Orient is a constant theme in our Western culture. Dali plays with
it, consciously or not, as does Ravel, when he has the simple words ‘Asie, Asie’ sung
so voluptuously in his Schéhérazade. Certain names of places and people are capable
of awaking a jumbled imaginary world: Samarkand, Angkor Wat, Borobudur,
Teotihuacán. Perhaps it is best to let these names remain names, ignoring the
potentially disappointing reality. There is in all of us an interior ‘Elsewhere’, which
our culture, our collective unconscious, connects to the East: perhaps because that is
where the sun rises.
The Aztecs also thought of an ‘Elsewhere’ in the East, from which Quetzalcoatl was
to return; when the real East appeared in the form of the conquistadores, it meant the
end of a dream, the dream of a whole civilization. It is the same in our music: should
the real East be introduced there or not? When jazz-rock groups include Indian tabla
players, or Menuhin plays ragas, it is not a mixing of cultures, as one often hears said,
but rather a sort of cultural neo-colonialism: stripping civilizations of their content,
which is even more exploitative than buying their cocoa at derisory prices.7
The East for Scelsi is an interior ‘Elsewhere’, but also a model that makes it possible
to rethink the Western tradition. Reflections of this re-imagined Orient, or more
generally of this ‘Elsewhere’, are strewn throughout Scelsi’s oeuvre. To the titles of the
works, often already very evocative, Scelsi sometimes adds explicit subtitles: Khoom,
seven episodes of a story of love and death not written, in a faraway land; Aiôn, four
episodes in a day of Brahma; Hurqualia, a different kingdom; and Uaxuctum, the
legend of the Mayan city that destroyed itself for religious reasons, etc.8
This last example shows that the imaginary Orient can extend to the distant West,
to vanished pre-Columbian civilizations and their mysteries. In the Western
imagination, El Dorado adjoins the kingdom of Prester John and the marvels
reported by Marco Polo.
But though these titles help to reveal the intentions and approach of the composer,
we should not stop there. The vocal and instrumental techniques, the way time
unfolds, and Scelsi’s compositional approach also show reflections of the East. New
performing techniques, sounds usually thought of as parasitic side effects of playing
(bow sounds, breath, etc.), incantatory elements, ritual forms, stasis in motion . . .
these are all layers of an original, unique rhetoric.

Sculpting Time
In Scelsi’s compositions, the instrumentalist or singer no longer merely ‘plays the
notes’. A sonic entity, perceived as a single whole, is sometimes represented by many
musical symbols; in an extreme case, the whole score represents a single sound. We
have to learn how to read music again, learn to recognize how a seemingly indivisible
sonic entity can really be constructed by a whole set of musical symbols—the different
178 T. Murail (trans. R. Hasegawa)
pitches, accompanied by dynamics markings, timbral instructions, and so on—
representing only various moments within the evolution of that sound. Scelsi’s
intuitive grasp of acoustics is remarkable. He exploits, probably unconsciously,
acoustic phenomena such as transients, beats, the width of the critical band, etc.9
This is particularly clear in the vocal writing, where the consonants act as attack
transients, while timbre is controlled precisely by the vowels. In the pieces for solo
strings, Scelsi frequently calls for a scordatura which makes it possible to play the
same pitch (or pitches separated by very small intervals) on all four strings in the
same position. This makes it possible to thicken the sound and to produce beats and
micro-fluctuations that enrich the instrumental timbre.
We can make a distinction between two types of detailed work with timbre. The
first type acts directly on the sound source: the placement of the bow, the choice of
string, the precise description of dynamics and graininess, mutes (conventional or
newly invented), nasal vowels, etc. The second type is a kind of additive synthesis. I
use this technical term intentionally, rather than speaking of ‘orchestration’, since
here the synthesis of timbre is often the essential compositional act. The composer is
primarily interested in creating new sounds, not in dressing up pre-existing material.
This obviously leads to new demands on instrumentalists: on one hand, the mastery
of precise playing technique, with micro-variations of articulation (tremolos, measured
tremolos, tremolos on several strings), of timbre, of dynamics and pitch (trills, rhythmic
trills, quarter-tone oscillations, small glissandi), and often the combination of all these
techniques; on the other hand, in ensemble pieces, the ability to fuse the individual
instrumental parts into a global resultant sound. These technical requirements are
similar to those of ‘spectral’ music, where one needs the same fine control of timbre and
where the effect of fusion is a main characteristic of the language.
In a way, the harmonic aspects of Scelsi’s music are nothing but a by-product of
this globalizing approach. Harmony in the classical sense is usually non-existent,
reduced to a unison or an octave ‘thickened’ by the methods previously described.
Yet sometimes there are sudden harmonic ‘refractions’: the unison is diffracted,
reflected in new pitches. This phenomenon is very noticeable in pieces like Anahit or
the Fourth String Quartet. Analysis shows that these harmonic refractions often use
intervals from the harmonic spectrum, or subharmonics (from an inverted harmonic
spectrum). These relationships, however, are warped by microtonal distortions or
gradual changes in the pitch of the sounds. ‘Almost-triads’ create a strange, nostalgic
effect, simultaneously familiar and unknown, approachable and inaccessible.10 More
rarely, this polarization occurs on an interval, instead of on a single pitch (for
instance, in Pranam II, entirely built on the interval C-sharp – E).
We cannot neglect another aspect of the music of Scelsi, which I will call
‘incantatory’. His melodic fluctuations and use of quarter-tones are often related to
incantatory techniques (frequent returns to the same pitch, the repetition and
variation of short formulas), as are his rhythms, which are organized around a more
or less hidden periodicity. Scelsi readily acknowledges his attraction to rhythmic
incantation, to rhythms ‘surging with vital dynamism’. Certain pieces evoke a secret
 Contemporary Music Review 179
ceremony: Okanagon, a piece for harp, tam-tam and double bass, is subtitled ‘to be
considered a rite, or if you will, the heartbeat of the earth’. Still more explicit are the
Riti, three pieces titled Funeral of Achilles, Funeral of Alexander the Great and Funeral
of Charlemagne. The music is not just evocative of ceremony, but a dreamed re-
enactment of ancient music. The ‘Elsewhere’ is not only geographic, but also
temporal. Many of Scelsi’s titles seem to refer to a mythic, Greco-Egyptian antiquity
(Okanagon, Anagamin, etc.).
Scelsi subsumes the idea of rhythm into the more global concept of duration,
anticipating the spectral composers’ conception of time. Rhythm is ‘a manifestation
of duration’ that ‘connects the personal and relative time of the creative artist to
cosmic duration, to absolute time’.
The rhythm thus understood may be an internal rhythm, which animates the work
even when it is essentially a single continuous sound. Time becomes ambiguous,
simultaneously static and dynamic. The global formal shape often seems static, while
the details are very mobile. We do not find here the idea of process, which motivates
so much contemporary music. Is this stasis, or the abolition of time, a glimpse of
eternity? I think here of Messiaen, who also does not have a dynamic concept of form,
but instead creates a design in stained glass, each instant autonomous and timeless.
This could offer an explanation to what might seem like a formal weakness in Scelsi’s
work: I am thinking of all the works in several movements, in which the relationships
between the movements do not obey any perceptible logic.
Nevertheless, the strongest works tend to be based on a more rigorous formal
concept. These are pieces in a single movement—of a single movement, one could
say—an unbroken and irresistible gesture, like the slow and unequivocal rise of the
Fourth String Quartet, or the similar rise, in three sections (the second a cadenza for
the soloist) of Anahit, where the violin leads the orchestra in an endlessly ascending
spiral.
These two examples clearly illustrate Scelsi’s compositional approach. Not the
concept of development or motivic cells, of superimposing structures (or in fact of
structures at all), not ‘com-position’ (to return to our introduction), but a global
approach, drawing closer to the object in ever-narrower concentric circles. Once
again, this approach recalls the East, and the aesthetic of the Zen calligrapher or
painter.
But what is the object, and what is the model? Music always has a model, whether
formal or natural. Even the most abstract art proceeds from models. What is Scelsi’s
model—how can one analyse his music without resorting to a simple and useless
description? The traditional tools of analysis are inappropriate, since there is neither
material, nor combination, nor a clearly articulated form. There remains the study
(perhaps with statistical methods) of shapes, densities, changes of register and
thickenings, of their evolutions and relationships. We need a new type of analysis,
more general and perhaps applicable to all types of music, an analysis that would go
straight to its goal—-i.e. to the composer’s intention and the effect perceived by the
listener. Traditional analysis would be one possible subcategory in a larger scheme,
180 T. Murail (trans. R. Hasegawa)
just as traditional compositional techniques and so-called systems—‘modal, tonal,
atonal’—will undoubtedly be recognized in the future as aspects or facets of a more
global reality, in which the relationships between musical elements will obey much
more general rules.
If there is an underlying model in Scelsi’s work, it does not come from the Western
tradition of form, the observation of nature or the construction of an original theory,
but rather from elsewhere . . . or perhaps ‘Elsewhere’. Scelsi liked to describe himself
as a mere transmitter, an intermediary between our world and a higher reality. Do
images and ideas exist independently, waiting to be revealed by the artist/
intermediary? For Scelsi, to compose was to ‘project images in the medium of
sound’—as if images and sonic material pre-existed the musician. In the impossibility
of finding precursors for his work, it is tempting, even for the least mystical of us, to
accept his definitions.

Notes
[1] Translator’s note: In French, one sense of the transitive verb poser is to place something into
a position or context from which it can be appreciated.
[2] See particularly the First String Quartet.
[3] The Ondioline, created by the French engineer George Jenny, was a sort of prehistoric
synthesizer, similar in many ways to the electronic organ and the ondes Martenot (another
electronic instrument).
[4] Cerha is the author of a series of pieces for orchestra, Spiegel, in which the orchestra is often
treated as a generator of complex harmonies with strong electronic connotations. One finds
a sense of time similar to the ‘smooth time’ of Ligeti, but also a great expressive force.
[5] One could compare the word Khoom with the Mongolian word khöömei, which designates a
technique of diphonic singing.
[6] Two pictures by Dali, in a frame shaped like a masculine and feminine profile facing each
other, decorated the salon of Scelsi’s small apartment in Rome.
[7] At least the cocoa remains cocoa—cultural exploitation can deform or even destroy the art
that it imports.
[8] In fact, it is not a legend—the ruins of Uaxuctún (which is the correct spelling) actually exist,
though its destruction, like that of all the Mayan cities, remains mysterious.
[9] Closely spaced pitches give rise to beats or ‘chorus’ effects, which enrich the sonic texture;
when the pitches spread apart a little, one enters the zone of ‘dissonance’; when they spread
further, one gets the sense of ‘consonance’. The notion of the critical band is in a certain
respect a theoretical justification for the intuitive idea of the ‘depth’ of the sound.
[10] Acoustically, the microtonal intervals produce beats and a clash of harmonics, which darkens
or filters the overall timbre, thus producing an effect of distance (far away sounds are
similarly filtered) that evokes a sense of nostalgia.

References
Castagnoli, G. (1987). Suono e processo nei Quattro pezzi per orchestra (1959) di G. Scelsi’.
Quaderni di Musica Nuova, 1, 45 – 57. Reprinted in Giacinto Scelsi Viaggio al centro del suono.
(1992) P. A. Castenet and N. Cisternino (Eds). La Spezia: Luna editore, pp. 246 – 259.
Borges, J. L. (1956). Pierre Menard, author of the Quixote. In Ficciones. Buenos Aires: Emecé
Editiores.
Contemporary Music Review
Vol. 24, No. 2/3, April/June 2005, pp. 181 – 185

Scelsi and L’Itinéraire: The Exploration

of Sound1
Tristan Murail (translated Robert Hasegawa)

Speaking of Scelsi’s influence is difficult, but I will try to describe, in a historical or

retrospective way, the encounter between Scelsi and the composers of my generation.
It came about very simply: many of us have spent time at the Villa Medicis in Rome,
and that is where we met Scelsi, who (until very recently) completely avoided
travelling. These last few years he has resumed travelling all over the world, but at the
time the only way to meet him was to visit him in Rome. He enjoyed attending
concerts of contemporary music and came to the Villa each time a concert was held
there. I will concentrate on the three composers who, in certain ways, seem closest to
Scelsi: myself, Gérard Grisey and Michaël Lévinas. The three of us are also (not
coincidentally) linked by a movement and an ensemble called l’Itinéraire; it was
through the Ensemble l’Itinéraire that much of Scelsi’s music became known in
France. I will explain later why the encounter with Scelsi affected us so profoundly.
Scelsi’s fame as a composer has been intermittent; he has gone through periods in
which he was very well known and periods in which he was completely ignored.
Before the Second World War, he was well known in both poetic and musical circles.
He wrote 12-tone music, which he has now almost completely renounced and
destroyed. After the war, he went through a period of obscurity. He returned to the
public eye in the late 1950s with the sensational premiere in Paris of the Quattro Pezzi
per orchestra (su una nota sola). Afterwards, he fell into another period of neglect, and
his music was almost never played in Paris. He had to wait for years before his music
began to be performed again. It was in 1974, I believe, that as l’Itinéraire we put on
our first piece by Scelsi. Now, perhaps thanks to us (or so I like to think), Scelsi is
widely known and performed, particularly in Germany, sometimes in England, and a
little in France. We have been able to play and sometimes premiere a number of
chamber and ensemble pieces, such as Khoom (with Michiko Hirayama), Pranam I,
Pranam II, Anahit (one of Scelsi’s most beautiful pieces, for violin and ensemble) and
Manto.
To explain how our connection with Scelsi came about, I must explain a little about
our path as musicians and composers. I will begin with myself, because it is the easiest.
While I was studying at the conservatory with Olivier Messiaen in the 1970s, the
influence of the serialists was still predominant—even with Messiaen, who insisted that

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182 T. Murail (trans. R. Hasegawa)
we work serially and forbade the use of octaves. I tried this for a while, but then realized
that these techniques were not suitable for what I wanted to express in my music. I thus
tried to disengage myself from the serial school and at once attempted to find strong,
pure harmonic colours, for serial composition very often leads to a sort of uniform
greyness in the harmonic dimension. I also searched for a different approach to time: in
particular, a non-event-oriented time. All this (and also the influence of Xenakis, his way
of seeing music as an architecture of time and the orchestra as a mass that one could
sculpt) led me to compose very differently. One of my first pieces for orchestra written at
the conservatory, Altitude 8000, was based on these things: strong harmonic colours,
with many octaves, fifths, etc., and a sense of time very different from the fragmented
time common in serial music, or even in the music of Messiaen. A few years later, I wrote
a piece called Sables for orchestra, which was premiered at the Festival de Royan, where I
attempted a global sound with the orchestra. The individuality of the instruments
vanished completely into the fused sound of the orchestra. In a certain sense, this piece
was made up of a single sound that lasted for the duration of the piece. Here, one can
begin to see the connection with Scelsi’s music.
Some of my colleagues have had parallel paths. I think especially of Gérard Grisey, who
was also influenced by Ligeti and Xenakis. I should add Stockhausen to the list, thinking
particularly of Stimmung, a piece for six voices based on a single chord that is a fragment
of a harmonic spectrum. Grisey took this type of spectrum as a point of departure for his
later work. One of his first consciously spectral pieces was called Périodes—he wrote it at
the Villa Medicis. (I remember very well l’Itinéraire’s performance of this piece at the
Villa, which I believe Scelsi attended.) In spectral composition, musical sound (in fact,
natural sound) is taken as a model. The sound is analysed and influences the
composition of the music at both the harmonic and formal levels.
Very early on, Michaël Lévinas attempted to transform the sound of instruments
directly, in ways that recall certain aspects of Scelsi’s work. At the same time that
Grisey composed Périodes, Lévinas wrote a piece called Appels, which connected the
instruments to natural resonators, snare drums, which totally transformed the
instrumental sounds. For my part, I tried to simulate electronic processes, which later
led to the more general idea of using audible formal processes to write music,
replacing the older ideas of development and sectional form. As an example, I could
mention my piece Mémoire-Érosion, written, I believe, in 1975, in which I tried to
simulate processes based on filtering, echo and feedback (the use of several tape
recorders that pass sounds from one to another). All this was done solely through
notation, the score itself simulating the electronic processes. In the same way, and at
about the same time, Grisey simulated the process of ring modulation. A ring
modulator is an electronic device that can modify and enrich a natural sound.
I mention all of this because of the influence it has had on instrumental techniques.
At first, like many other composers, we searched for new sounds obtained by special
instrumental playing techniques. These include the well-known multiphonics on
wind instruments, or certain subtle alterations of the sound on string instruments,
techniques that are found in Scelsi’s music, but even more in spectral composition
 Contemporary Music Review 183
and the music of the l’Itinéraire composers. This new style of playing tends to allow
the fusion of instrumental timbres (or at least a very precise control of timbres and
dynamics), which was necessary in our music to build a global sound from many
individual sounds. This style of playing is now fairly well known among younger
musicians, but ten years ago it was quite difficult to make musicians understand how
to approach these techniques. I do not know if it could be said that Scelsi exerted a
direct influence on all I have talked about, but there are always unconscious
influences, and they could have been reinforced by certain convergences, which I will
now try to explain. Michaël Lévinas’s music and my own resemble each other very
little, but they share a certain number of basic ideas: in particular, the exploration of
the interior of sounds. This exploration is a very important development for music at
the end of this century, and Scelsi was the pioneer.
To be sure, the techniques available to Scelsi, who worked essentially by intuition
and experimentation, differ greatly from ours—we have access to technical, scientific
methods of analysing sounds. Modern analytical instruments, provided by
conventional electronics or now by the computer, give us the ability to understand
the structure of sounds in detail: their spectrum, i.e. the way they can be decomposed
into their elementary components; their dynamic envelope, or the way they vary in
time; their transients, the way that they begin or end. The goal of certain techniques
in spectral music is the design of a global sound from this type of analysis. Then, we
attempt to ‘resynthesize’ the sound with the technique that Gérard Grisey called
‘instrumental synthesis’, using the instruments as the elementary components of a
more general global sound, the sound of the ensemble or orchestra as a whole. This is
a completely different approach from that of traditional composition, which was
essentially based on the stacking of lines, on counterpoint and harmony.
Many of Scelsi’s works are based on a single pitch, a single sound, which is varied
and set into motion from within by many different techniques. I mentioned earlier a
work that has made a mark in the history of music, the Quattro Pezzi per Orchestra
(su una nota sola). Each of these pieces is based on a single note, which is varied and
agitated, all from within, so that the compositional process happens in the interior of
a single sound, rather than in the combination of many sounds. As a result, the sonic
material is also the form of the piece. It cannot even be said that one follows from the
other, that the form comes from the material, or that the material comes from the
form, as in much other music. They are truly one and the same phenomenon; this is
an important idea for me, which has guided me in my own work. I think it is a very
new attitude toward musical discourse—it is an attitude absolutely contrary to
classical principles, contrary to both tonal and serial music, which are both based on
the combination of pre-existing elements. I often illustrate this idea by a metaphor,
saying that with this approach, the composer becomes like a sculptor: he disengages a
form from a single mass, rather than constructing a form with a number of bricks like
a mason.
This approach leads to a different conception of time, and the second major
convergence between our music and Scelsi’s is what I call smooth time [temps lisse]. It
184 T. Murail (trans. R. Hasegawa)
is almost impossible to analyse most of Scelsi’s works in formal terms. Time unfolds
in continuous motion, without a break. I am aware that one can also find pieces in
Scelsi’s oeuvre with more abrupt rhythms and short segments, and I have sometimes
found it difficult to understand how these pieces are related to the ‘smooth’ pieces.
Sometimes, the two tendencies coexist: for example, in Khoom, certain movements
are of the rhythmic type—somewhat contrapuntal, and a little angular—while others
are in the more typical continuous style. Be that as it may, Scelsi’s idea of smooth
time links him to several other composers who arrived at a similar concept; whether
they influenced one another is difficult to say. Ligeti, of course, belongs to this group.
Gérard Grisey’s Jour, contre-jour is one of the most formally smooth pieces; it is based
entirely on continuous transformations, but (strictly speaking) has no sonic events.
Smooth time does not necessarily mean stasis or the absence of movement or change,
but rather that there are no sharp breaks, and that the form is not sectional. Smooth
time is based instead on a continuous form, on continuous processes, and on
movements coming from within the sound itself. In Scelsi, one does not always find
clearly oriented processes; that is to say one does not always have the sensation of
going towards something. The Fourth String Quartet is a clear exception. Its form is
extremely simple: a continuous climbing, a single sound that rises continually—
except for, at certain moments, harmonic blossomings or lower resonances of the
endlessly ascending overall sound. It is a piece that is truly based on a single
phenomenon. The occasional absence of temporal orientation in Scelsi’s music is one
of the essential differences between his music and my own or Grisey’s, because we
strive above all to create dynamism in our music, to give the music a clear
directionality, an orientation (in the topological sense of the word).
Both this temporal aspect and the exploration of sound are built on certain
instrumental techniques, which could be described as research into a new type of
sound. I believe that this is one of Scelsi’s major preoccupations. I speak now not of
form, inspiration or aesthetics, but of technique. One of his main interests has been
the search for new sounds from instruments and the voice; this interest has made him
a great connoisseur of instrumental effects, especially variations of timbre.
Particularly on string instruments, which he uses very often, he specifies the different
playing techniques in great detail: for instance, the placement of the bow sul ponticello
or sul tasto, tremolo effects, or a wide vibrato. All of this, which is notated very
precisely in his music, must be executed with equal precision, which is not easy. Scelsi
also uses many dynamic effects, such as sforzandi, which are, in my view, more than
just surface effects. Often, he calls for scordatura, the retuning of a string instrument
so that the same pitch can be played on all four strings—not at the same time but in
alternation, as an arpeggio or in a fast tremolo. The pitch has a different timbre on
each string, owing to the different degrees of tension. This type of timbral subtlety
can be found in Grisey’s scores, and also in my own compositions. We have
sometimes even gone so far as decomposing timbre into harmony, or recomposing
harmony into timbre. In fact, in the technique we use, timbre and harmony are
considered two aspects of the same thing.
 Contemporary Music Review 185
Scelsi told me one day, ‘The quarter-tone is a true note, it is a note like all the
others.’’ He is right, but I do not completely agree with his approach to quarter-
tones. For him, they act to modify the overall timbre of his music— truly to create
harmonies in quarter-tones would be entirely foreign to his musical language. Rather,
he uses them to distort harmonies. Although the harmonic aspect is not the most
important in his work, one very often finds in Scelsi’s music strange harmonies,
similar to triads or familiar chords, but slightly different. This effect is frequently due
to the use of quarter-tones, the use of almost-triads.
Microtonal intervals, and quarter-tones in particular, are used quite frequently in
today’s music. Many young composers use quarter-tones in one way or another.
However, I find that Scelsi’s use of quarter-tones is very different from my own,
where the quarter-tone is no more than an expedient that provides an
approximation, finer than a semitone, to an exact acoustic frequency. Scelsi, on
the other hand, uses quarter-tones to give an expressive nuance to the sound.
To finish our discussion of instrumental techniques, I should mention the various
torture instruments that Scelsi uses from time to time, in particular the resonators. In
certain pieces, he calls for special mutes (for string instruments), which he invented
himself. These mutes have the effect of adding a sort of interference, creating an
‘impure’ sound. I believe this is one of the essential principles of Scelsi’s sound. I
could draw a comparison with African musics, where the most beautiful sound is not
(as it is in the Western tradition) the purest sound, but on the contrary, a sound that
is enriched, distorted and charged with many interfering resonances. One of the
techniques is to make the sound of the instrument set another sounding body into
resonance. I would also include Scelsi’s vocal techniques in this comparison; they
produce an ‘impure’ sound by comparison to classical vocal techniques. Here, I see a
connection to Michaël Lévinas, who uses the same type of sounds, and who has
undertaken the same sort of research with both voices and instruments.
Scelsi did some experiments in the domain of electronics, without doubt wilfully
primitive. You have to have visited him and seen his old tape recorders to
understand. Scelsi had an Ondioline—one of the ancestors of the synthesizer, dating
(I believe) from 1945 or 1950—which showed his interest in electronic instruments.
He made some ventures into tape music—I remember particularly a piece he played
for me, an experiment that consisted of completely twisted and saturated piano
sounds, made with a small microphone and his ancient tape recorder, which easily
overloaded.2

Notes
[1] Editor’s note: This text was transcribed from an oral presentation given at Royaumont in
1988, during a colloquium on Scelsi.
[2] I believe that this ‘tape piece’, once transcribed for strings, was the source for the very odd
Fifth Quartet.
Contemporary Music Review
Vol. 24, No. 2/3, April/June 2005, pp. 187 – 267

Villeneuve-lès-Avignon Conferences,
Centre Acanthes, 9–11 and 13 July
1992
Tristan Murail (translated by Aaron Berkowitz & Joshua
Fineberg)

The following conference text was created from a transcription made by Dominic
Garant and revised by Pierre Michel. I would like to cordially thank both of them for
having taken on this onerous and thankless job. I thought it necessary, nevertheless, to
rewrite these texts rather substantially. The conferences were essentially improvisatory,
based loosely on a pre-established plan (I do not like to read conference texts: it
reminds me of a professor of civil law who—in what he called a course—read the
‘lecture notes’ that one could buy in advance at the book store across from the
university). The oral style seemed to me annoying to read; in addition, these
conferences were accompanied by numerous sonic and visual examples, without the
help of which they would have certainly become incomprehensible. Their subjects (and
the order in which they are discussed) were determined in relation to the concert
programme at the Centre Acanthes, where Désintégrations, Territoires de l’Oubli and
Allégories were featured.

I have endeavoured to compile these texts in such a way as to make them clearer and
easier to read, while still attempting to stay as close as possible to speech-like writing,
without stylistic pretence. I chose not to retain the division into four days, since it did
not correspond to a significant formal division; however, I did conserve the order of the
subjects discussed, even though it may seem a bit arbitrary outside of the context of the
Centre Acanthes. Finally, over the course of this rewriting, I tried to stay as faithful as
possible to the ideas expressed at that time—even if today I might formulate certain
things rather differently.
T.M., Monroe, New York, May 2003

The Musical Sound

Let’s begin at the most elementary level, that of the musical sound (which is the
foundation of the entire musical edifice). First, however, we must ask ourselves ‘what
is a musical sound?’ The realm of musical sounds has broadened so much over the
last few decades that it has become difficult to give a precise answer. Most generally,

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188 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
we might say that a musical sound is any sound considered as such by composers and
listeners. It is with this definition that composers have tried to integrate, more or less
successfully, all sorts of sounds (many of which were previously considered ‘non-
musical’) into the musical discourse. Here, I’m thinking of the sounds found in
musique concrete or in the works of John Cage. However, if all sounds can potentially
be ‘musical’, how can one not get lost? Actually, it is quite easy to tell from the flow of
the music whether a sound ought to be considered ‘musical’ or not. During a concert
of classical music there is little doubt that the sound of your neighbour coughing is
not part of the musical discourse. Alternatively, within a piece written for ‘coughing
voice’ and ‘creaking window’ the sound of a cough will certainly be considered a
musical sound while the sound of a violinist impolitely warming up in the wings
during the performance might just as easily lose its usual designation as ‘musical
sound’—since it is not integrated into the discourse.1
The instrumental sound can nevertheless serve as a paradigm for a broader
category of musical sounds. The reason for this is relatively simple: instrumental
sounds have attained their current forms through our attempts to modify and
‘improve’ them over centuries. We have, by now, reached the point where these
sounds are often judged more or less perfect—at least, for their intended usages. We
can thus embrace the hypothesis that instrumental sounds, in their contemporary
form, are closely related to the very foundations of our culture.
It would be interesting to analyse why instrumental sounds suit us so well. Perhaps
from this analysis we could derive a model for organizing music more generally? This
hypothesis, though certainly a bit bold, allowed nonetheless for the realization of a
certain number of pieces during the 1970s. I am thinking in particular of the Espaces
acoustiques cycle by Gérard Grisey. Of course, this idea is far from sufficient to
account for the totality of the work’s musical organization, but we can consider it as
one of the points of departure for the composition’s formal construction.

Timbre
Let us now examine the phenomenon of timbre in occidental music. In observing the
historical evolution of this music, it is easy to see that timbre takes on an increasingly
important role in musical discourse. In the music of the 16th and 17th centuries,
timbre was not really taken into account and was often not explicitly notated. Many
pieces could be played equally well on the oboe as on the violin, with accompaniment
provided by either a harpsichord or a lute; pieces were played with the available
means, without attaching much importance to the specific sonic character of the
resultant sounds. Later, timbres started to be more precisely indicated: the
Brandenburg Concerti, for example, are specifically written for certain types of
timbres. The melodic lines themselves begin to take on specific characteristics
depending on the instruments. The use of idiomatic language for the instruments is
beginning. Progressively, the concept of orchestration starts to emerge in the late 18th
and early 19th centuries. Little by little, orchestral timbre is refined either by
 Contemporary Music Review 189
‘synthesis’ (adding instruments one of the fundamental principles of ‘classical
orchestration’), or through increasing precision in defining specific, often
unconventional instrumental techniques. This later approach has become especially
significant in the 20th century, in particular on string instruments, where the sonority
can easily be modulated (ponticello, tasto, col legno, etc.). At present, the possibilities
of instruments have been explored to the extreme, permitting us, at least in principle,
to define and notate instrumental timbre with great precision, while the technical and
virtuosic possibilities of instrumental performance continually expand. This,
however, does not necessarily signify that classical instruments, in their current
state, respond to all our needs and expectations.
Timbre, thus, seems to be taking on a greater and greater importance in musical
discourse. Additionally and in contrast to our Western tradition, one finds music in
other parts of the world based on timbre rather than on pitch layout. I am thinking of
certain ancient music of the Far East, China, Japan. . . One sometimes finds
instrumental techniques in these musics which are strangely reminiscent of our
‘contemporary’ techniques. These techniques have the goal of producing successive
sound effects, which often seek to evoke natural phenomena.2 In this music, the
discourse rests on sequences of timbral effects, or rather sound objects, rather than on
sequences of pitches (in the traditional sense).
The importance of timbre3 could be explained in a variety of other ways.
Timbre is one of the sonic categories most easily analyzed by perception, owing to
the simple reason that spoken language is essentially a timbral phenomenon.
There are, of course, also pitch phenomena in spoken language (e.g. Far Eastern
languages, or certain African languages, which are comprised of ‘tones’4); there is
often a linguistic role that falls upon the tonic accent (the intensity), a role that
carries varying importance depending on the language—essential for comprehen-
sion in some cases, but only accessory, or even almost non-existent, in others (as
in the case of French). Sometimes the length of vowels (the rhythm) also serves to
convey meaning. Thus, the only universal characteristic of human languages is the
use of timbre: vowels can be assimilated as pure harmonic vibration (spectrum),
whereas the consonants act as attack and extinction transients. Moreover, the
richness in vowels of certain languages seems to compensate for the non-use of
pitches and rhythms, and vice-versa. Since our infancy, we have been habituated
to perceiving and distinguishing timbres much more finely than pitches.
Additionally, the majority of non-musician listeners are capable of distinguishing
one instrumental timbre from another and even naming them, although they
could not identify pitches and rhythms. In the popular music of our time—rock,
pop, etc.—the essence is placed in the timbre, in the mixing and in the utilization
of electronic processing and sonorities. On the other hand, the message of the
pitches, melodic or rhythmic, if it exists, is often extremely simple. Finally, the
contemporary attraction to the phenomenon of timbre is greatly facilitated by the
technical means at our disposal. New technologies allow us, in effect, to infinitely
expand the possibilities offered by the layouts and arrangements of timbre—to
190 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
build a combinatory system based on timbre, which was previously almost
unimaginable.

Discourse and Musical Language

Is it possible, then, given what we’ve learned from the study of timbre, to construct a
coherent discourse and musical language based upon that phenomenon? An
instrumental sound, any one, seems to us to be a unique perceptual object. A cellist
plays a ‘beautiful’ sound, with nice vibrato, and the listener represents it mentally as a
beautiful cello sound with vibrato. Nonetheless, if you listen to a sound in a certain
way, if you focus your ear so as to dissect the contents, you can distinguish different
harmonics of this sound quite well and thereby understand that it is made up of a
group of components—all of which have their own lives. We are accustomed to
considering this group of components as a single object, and calling it the ‘sound’,
but it is equally possible to dissociate them: allowing unitary timbre to burst into
multi-dimensional harmony. This concept serves as the foundation for certain
fascinating vocal techniques. In Mongolia and in the Tuvan Republic5, the technique
of diphonic singing allows the dissociation of the voice into two perceptible entities:
the fundamental and its harmonics. While the fundamental frequency stays fixed, the
singer’s voice (by strongly accenting one or another harmonic, like an exaggerated
vowel) creates a succession of formant peaks that in turn create a sort of melody. In
contrast to a traditional melody, which consists of a succession of complete multi-
dimensional sound objects (the succession of ‘notes’ emitted by a classical singer),
here the melody situates itself in the very midst of a single sonic object that is
modulated over time. One can consider these diphonic (khöömi) songs of Mongolia
and of Tuva as the first known examples of ‘spectral composition’.
In Figure 1, the horizontal axis represents time (in seconds), the vertical axis
represents frequency (in hertz). The intensities of the component harmonics are
represented by marks that are more or less thick and dark. The numbers 1–10
correspond to the ranks of the harmonics. One sees that harmonics 1–5 are stable
(they make the fundamental perceptible), whereas harmonics 6–9 evolve markedly in
intensity. It is this succession of intensity peaks that creates the perceptible melodic
contour, notated below the sonogram in traditional pitch notation.
Let’s now examine a mundane piano sound. The analysis shown in Figure 2
corresponds to a brief instant of sound, just after the attack, of the note C1 played on
a modern piano (C1 is the lowest C on a standard piano). We are not interested here
in how the sound changes over time, as we were in the preceding example, but only in
its vertical (harmonic) structure. In this sound, the analysis program detected 118
harmonics, which is a rather large number. After eliminating the least important
components (i.e. those with close to zero intensity), 91 remain. Most of the low
instruments of the orchestra possess an enormous number of harmonics; however,
the piano remains an unusual case. Zones where the intensities of the components are
relatively louder than surrounding components are called ‘formants’. In the case of
 Contemporary Music Review 191

Figure 1 Sonogram of a fragment of Mongolian diphonic singing.

the piano’s sound, we find formantic zones around the harmonics 27, 28, 29 and 30,
for example, or again around harmonics 35, 36, 37 and 38, which is extremely high in
the spectral scale.
In Figure 2, the numbers on the left in each column indicate the harmonic rank,
the numbers on the right give the intensity of each harmonic. The harmonics with the
most amplitude—which create the formants—are in bold (analysis carried out at
IRCAM in the 1980s).
Note that while the fundamental should normally be given the rank of number 1,
there is no component in this analysis with that rank. In fact, the 1st harmonic—the
fundamental—is totally absent. This means that the note C1, which we write in the
score, is in fact not heard at all. No frequency in the analysis of the piano’s C1
corresponds to the note C1. Therefore, at least in certain situations, what we think we
are hearing can be an illusion. In the case of the piano note, this illusion is called a
‘virtual fundamental’: we have the impression of hearing a fundamental sound when
we hear the entire ensemble of harmonics of a fundamental even if that fundamental
is itself absent. But, in reality, if you hear the sound C1 on the piano without bias, it
does not really resemble a C very much, nor does it resemble any other precise note.
It is actually a very complex sound that is barely harmonic and which does not really
fit the definition of a traditional instrumental sound. When this note is played at the
same time as a C major triad in the middle register, it sounds just like a real C—the
fundamental of the chord—because its normal harmonic contents are reinforced by
the chord of C major (and, inversely, the resonance of this chord will be magnified by
the harmonics of C1). On the other hand, if you play this very low C at the same time
192 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

Figure 2 Analysis of a piano’s low C.

 Contemporary Music Review 193
as a complex non-tonal chord, the pitch of the low sound will become difficult to
determine.6
Ravel used this property of very low sounds in several of his piano pieces. In the
example given in Figure 3, taken from Une barque sur l’océan, the first A in the left
hand replaces what should have been a low G# that does not exist in this register on
normal pianos. In the context, one has the illusion of having heard a G# and not an
A. . .
The piano sound and diphonic chant examples prove that if we listen to timbres
with great attention, in an effort to deconstruct all of the conditioning of our hearing,
it is possible to distinguish various components from the interior of the sonic
spectrum. It is, of course, very obvious in the case of diphonic singing as well as for
certain similar sounds (such as those in the family of Jew’s harps). However, even the
sound of a familiar instrument (generally perceived as a single unit—a ‘sound
object’) can end up dissociated if we listen in a particular way. For the piano, the
evolution of the sound over time can be an aid to the perception of this inner
richness. At the emission of sound, all the components are present and the timbre is
complex and difficult to analyse; then, little by little, as the sound decays we hear
more clearly, and each in turn, the different zones of harmonic resonance—certain of
which die away first, while others resonate longer.

Temperament, Micro-intervals
It is well known that the pitches contained within a harmonic spectrum (as, for that
matter, in the majority of inharmonic spectra) are mostly not part of our tempered
scale universe. Therefore, working within the interior of a harmonic spectrum, as the
Mongolians do, entails the use of micro-intervals.
The frequencies observed inside of a spectrum do not correspond to any system
that divides the octave into regular intervals. However, since frequencies expressed by
the speed of their periodic vibrations (hertz) are inconvenient for the composer or
instrumentalist to use and difficult to notate on a score, I will continue to represent
these frequencies through (more or less precise) approximations using tempered
divisions of the octave. Figure 4 shows an example that compares three different
approximations of the same aggregate.

Figure 3 Maurice Ravel: Une barque sur l’océan.

194 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

Figure 4 Different approximations of the same aggregate.

Figure 5 Steps in the harmonic progression from the opening of Anahit.

The chosen aggregate is composed of harmonics 3, 5, 7, 9 and 11 of the

fundamental G1 (the lowest G on the piano). These harmonics’ frequencies in hertz
are: 147, 245, 343, 441 and 539. If we round these frequencies to the closest half-step,
they correspond to the notes D, B, F, A and C#. Despite the major seventh (which is
softened by the presence of consonant intervals like the perfect fifth), the resultant
chord sounds rather ‘consonant’ and ‘classical’. This is a chord that can sometimes be
found in the works of composers from the impressionist period. In reality, though,
the approximation to the half-step is somewhat crude. If we round to the nearest
quarter-tone rather than the nearest half-step, the F (7th harmonic) becomes an E¼#,
and the 11th harmonic (C#) becomes C¼#. We can refine this aggregate even further
by approximating to the nearest eighth-tone. This will cause the B to be modified as
well, becoming a B lowered an eighth-tone (downward arrow); while the F, which
had been lowered by a quarter-tone, will now only be lowered by an eighth-tone; the
C stays C¼#. We could, in principle continue this process towards ever-finer
approximations, but experience and acoustic theory show that, in practice, the
approximation to the eighth-tone is sufficiently precise.
When listening to these different approximations of the original aggregate, one
notices that the more precise the approximation the less beating occurs, and the
more the notes melt into one another (creating a fused sonic image). With the
approximation to the nearest half-step, we clearly perceive a chord made up of
five notes; then, by refining the approximation, we arrive at the perception of a
 Contemporary Music Review 195
single timbre with five embedded components (like our natural perception of
individual complex sounds). When we do these operations in the inverse order, it
seems that there is increasing tension. This chord, which seemed relatively gentle
at the beginning, becomes almost ‘dissonant’ when contrasted with the more
precisely approximated versions. Thus micro-intervals do not necessarily introduce
a sensation of ‘out-of-tune-ness’ in a musical discourse; on the contrary, they can
create a greater sense of ‘in-tune-ness’. They can create greater consonance, or an
enhanced effect of fusion between the notes. Micro-intervals also allow for the
attainment of sonic aggregates that are much more interesting, much richer and
very much more varied than combinations of the 12 tempered pitches. This use of
microtones is very different from the approach of composers whose music is
based on dividing the octave into an arbitrary number of intervals, sometimes 24
(quarter-tones), but also sometimes more exotic divisions based on theories that
are more or less eccentric. The result of these arbitrary divisions often is not very
convincing from the harmonic point of view: they create an ‘out-of-tune’
impression, which is rather unpleasant.7 On the other hand, I believe that, with
my way of writing non-tempered music, an average listener—who was not told
that there were microtones—would hardly notice their presence. Of course, if
these micro-intervals were not there, the music’s colour would be totally changed.
One would lose both richness and suppleness. The harmony would probably
become much more ‘hard’ and undesired dissonances would appear. This is,
unfortunately, what happens all too often when pieces are poorly rehearsed, or
when the musicians or conductor have little experience with microtonal music: it
is the absence of micro-intervals, required by the score but not executed, that
creates an ‘out-of-tune impression’ in frequency-based music!
In the previous example, by increasing the precision of approximation, we
moved progressively from the perception of harmony to the perception of timbre.
Harmony and timbre can thus delineate a continuous domain. Between the poles
formed by these two notions, there is a whole space that is particularly interesting
because of its very ambiguity. In other words, an entire portion of musical
discourse can be situated between harmony and timbre. The notion of harmony-
timbre is not completely new. It was alluded to by Edgard Varèse and put into
practice by Olivier Messiaen. These two composers sought to build complex
harmony-timbre sonorities, based partially on the phenomena of natural sonic
resonances. In the midst of complex orchestral aggregates in these composers’
music, there are often effects of fusion; however, the use of the tempered scale
limits the scope of these effects.
The use of micro-intervals obviously poses some practical problems. In chamber
and solo music, performers are usually able to find more or less satisfactory solutions.
Certain things are, of course, impossible (e.g. quarter-tone alterations of the lowest
notes of the oboe and of the notes in certain regions of the clarinet). In principle, one
can play any and all possible microtones on string instruments; however, the
composer must still account for the performer’s ear—and the tempo.
196 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
In my works, I generally limit myself to the quarter-tone. In certain very specific
cases (and only in music for soloists or small ensembles), I ask for smaller intervals.
In certain specific situations, it is, in fact, possible to perform accurately these
smaller intervals: for example, in Treize couleurs du soleil couchant, the flutist must
play a slightly lowered E (about an eighth of a tone) at a certain moment. When
the exact pitch desired is performed, an effect of ‘fusion’ is created, the slightly
lowered E integrates itself perfectly into the harmony, and this effect is very easy for
the performer (and the listeners) to hear. The musician knows, thanks to the
context, that the note he plays is thus perfectly in tune. Of course, it is useless to
try to obtain a similar result with a large orchestra, especially given the current
rehearsal conditions. Therefore, I use other stratagems in orchestral settings. For
example, I sometimes ask one part of the orchestra to tune itself a quarter-tone
lower, thus making the use of complicated micro-intervallic fingerings unnecessary.
On the other hand, this forces me, in certain cases, to realize my melodic lines with
a technique almost like hocketing. Thus, the use of this special tuning induces its
own constraints on writing music. Perhaps things will change and, one day or
another, we will have quarter-tone keys on all of the instruments of the orchestra
(there are already quarter-tone flutes), but for now this is only a hope. We are in a
similar situation to Johann Sebastian Bach when he began writing chromatic music
with modulations for all instruments. Certain instruments (e.g. the trumpet) did
not then have a system for playing the desired notes, so the musicians needed to
use various substitutions. I imagine that the performances were often out of tune,
or at least approximate, and that the musicians of the 18th century must have
protested, as sometimes occurs at present. Maybe the performances J.S. Bach heard
of his music were often ‘out of tune’, in the same way that we often hear our music
played ‘out-of-tune’ now! But let’s not be too pessimistic. There are currently many
ensembles that excel at the performance of microtones and many instrumentalists
who know perfectly well how to perform them. In any case, I hope that you will
have understood that, for me, the quarter-tone is not an absolute—a goal in
itself—but the somewhat approximate means of realizing what one could call a
‘frequential harmony’—a harmony liberated from the constraints of scales and
other grids habitually applied to the continuum of frequencies. In this view, the
goal is to re-create an approximation of diverse acoustic phenomena, and a
microtone, even inaccurately performed, is still closer to the target frequency being
approximated than a ‘more accurate’ performance of a (cruder) semitone
approximation would be.

Giacinto Scelsi: Anahit

It is impossible not to evoke Giacinto Scelsi (1905–1988) when talking about music
based on timbre and on micro-intervals. In his own way, Scelsi too explored the
interior of sound. It is well known that, after a first career as an atonal or
dodecaphonic composer, Scelsi destroyed practically all of his previous work and
 Contemporary Music Review 197
started over from scratch. From that point on, Scelsi concentrated all of his attention
on musical sounds—even on a single sound alone. This meditation on sound is
equivalent to an intuitive exploration—mystical maybe—of the interior of those
sounds.
Scelsi used techniques for technologically aided composition, as we would now say,
which were relatively avant-garde for the period; he made simulations with electronic
instruments (e.g. the Ondioline, an instrument created in the 1950s that was a
polyphonic equivalent of the ondes Martenot) and recorded these experiments on
tape. These simulations allowed him to explore the inflections of micro-intervals, the
diverse types of vibrato, etc. One of Scelsi’s first really striking pieces is entitled
Quattro Pezzi per orchestra (ciascuno su una nota) (1959): in this set of four pieces for
orchestra, each piece is truly based on only one note. This goes beyond monody; it
represents a sort of extreme minimalism. In its way, the Mongolian music mentioned
earlier was also based on a single note.
In this context, where the parameter of ‘pitch’ is effectively abolished, music must
find other variables with which to express itself: these other variables are what Scelsi
called ‘the depth of sound’. This metaphorical expression designates the extensive use
of all of the internal parameters of sound: the spectrum, the variations of the
spectrum, the dynamics (the way in which the sound is dynamically developed over
time), the use of different types of sustain (like vibratos and tremolos of varying
speed) or even the timbral changes that one can create on the same note (e.g. by
playing it on different strings of a string instrument)—all of this is expressed very
precisely in the scores.
Scelsi wrote many works for solo instruments, which gave him the possibility of
deploying, in a clearly audible manner, his whole panoply of techniques for the
internal animation of sounds. In the orchestral works, the addition and mixture of
these sounds, with their own internal animation, further expand the sonic richness of
the unison—a unison ‘composed’ from the inside. More than an orchestration in the
traditional sense, Scelsi creates a sort of instrumental synthesis (to use Gérard Grisey’s
name for this technique). Moreover, this unison is usually thickened—enlarged into a
band of frequencies that surround the principal sound. Scelsi used quarter-tones in a
systematic manner, but very differently from the first explorers of micro-intervals
(composers like Alois Hàba, 1893–1973; Ivan Wyschnegradsky, 1893–1979; and
Julián Carillo, 1875–1965). Even though he often said that ‘quarter-tones are real
notes’ (to emphasize this fact, the symbols of quarter-tones are circled in his
manuscripts), Scelsi conceived his micro-intervals more as enlargements of the
unison than as a means of creating new scales.
Anahit, for violin solo and 18 instruments (1965), is in my opinion one of the most
successful and beautiful of Scelsi’s works. I will not go into a detailed analysis of the
piece, which would not really be of great meaning for this music. Instead, I would like
to pull certain generative principles from it and to give some indications concerning
the global form. One of the frequent characteristics of Scelsi’s music is the use of
smooth time, that is to say a form of musical time that is rarely marked by distinct
198 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
events. Since the music is centred around one or sometimes two principal pitches, all
traditional development and all systems of traditional variation become impossible.
The melody is limited to long, slow slides of pitch, sometimes punctuated by brief
more well-defined fragments. The formal progression is often very simple and
unidirectional.
Anahit is Scelsi’s only concert piece for solo instrument and orchestra. Its structure
in three parts could appear classical: the first part links the violin and the orchestra;
the second part corresponds to a violin cadenza; and in the third part the orchestra
returns. Inside each of the parts an alternation appears between relatively calm
passages and ‘climaxes’ where Scelsi used his entire range of techniques for
manipulating sustained sounds: trills, tremolos of varying amplitudes and speeds,
addition of trills and tremolos on different instruments. At certain moments, one
hears some very surprising amalgams that almost evoke the human voice—the result
of combining of all of these internal sonic movements and using certain instrumental
registers. The choice of instrumentation is especially interesting: three flutes
including alto flute, an English horn, a clarinet, a bass clarinet, a saxophone, two
horns, a trumpet, two trombones, two violas, two cellos, two basses, and the solo
violin. Note the absence of bassoon and oboe, as well as a predominance of warm and
velvety timbres. The absence of bassoon and oboe can be explained by the desire to
achieve an ‘instrumental synthesis’, which requires the fusion of all the instruments.
Double-reed instruments have a tendency to emerge from orchestral complexes more
than other instruments at the same dynamic, which makes them particularly apt for
playing solo lines. However, in music that seeks the effect of fusion above all, their use
becomes trickier, or even impossible.
Nonetheless, Anahit does use the English horn, as well as brass with mutes and sul
ponticello strings: all sounds that are in some way more sharply coloured than the
oboe. However, the context here is that of an orchestral group, not a solo instrument.
Scelsi is more interested in extreme situations than in moderate ones. Very often,
timbre travels between two poles, the very delicate timbre (flutes, the sul tasto of the
strings, etc.) on one side, and a highly coloured timbre that is sometimes at the
threshold of losing pitch and becoming coloured noise (strings sul ponticello, English
horn, stopped horns, etc.) on the other. These oppositions of timbre also appear
within the solo violin part itself. Most of the time, this part is written on four staves:
one staff for each string of the violin! Scelsi often asks the musician to play the same
note on different strings, either successively or simultaneously; on the violin this
produces many different timbres because of the differences in string tension and
thickness. To facilitate the playing of the same note on the different strings, the
composer is obliged to ask for a modified tuning of the violin, a scordatura (G, G one
octave above, B , D). The violin part is written almost entirely in double-stops and
very often in sweeps across three or four strings. As I mentioned before, the solo
violin very often plays ‘thickened’ unisons—that is to say double- or triple-stops
forming micro-tonal clusters of notes including the quarter-tone above or below the
main pitch, or sometimes sounds with a very large vibrato.
 Contemporary Music Review 199
The pitches are organized according to a very simple progression. In contrast to the
Tre pezzi, the pitches in Anahit are not based on a single note. Rather, Scelsi uses a
pivot-note: a central note generally played by the violin, which gradually changes.
This central note begins on D5. Over the course of the first section, there is a
continuous ascending motion from this D5 up a third to F#5. During the violin
cadenza, the ascent is prolonged, from F#5 to Ab5. In the third section, we return to
D, but an octave higher (D6). The same ascending motion again appears, this time
rising slightly farther to G6. These simple unidirectional ascents are the ‘melodic’
contents of the piece.
This central and sliding unison line is surrounded by other sounds. These other
sounds do not, properly speaking, play a harmonic role—since there is no melodic
sequence to harmonize. Their role could more accurately be compared to the
phenomenon of diffraction, in which a ray of light (the central sound) penetrates a
prism and explodes into various luminous frequencies. Thus the D5 heard at the
beginning of the solo part is diffracted into harmonics and subharmonics, or, better,
the D5 could be considered as a harmonic of a virtual fundamental (that one will hear
or not). Through this process of diffraction, a chord progressively establishes itself: G,
Bb or B¼b (the sound oscillates between the two) and D. However, this chord is by no
means a banal perfect triad: the D—the third harmonic of a low G—is reflected in the
sounds G and B–B¼b). Later, surreptitiously, this D slides towards Eb5. In turn, this
Eb5 generates its own diffractions and an Ab appears in the bass (see Figure 5).
What we have here is not really a harmonic progression in the classical sense: a
series of ‘parallel fifths’ (G–D, then Ab–Eb). Everything changes through surreptitious
sliding, so that between two harmonic diffractions there is a period of instability from
which the new configuration is born, without there being an audible moment of
arrival. Study of the piece reveals that the pivot note can often be considered as the
3rd or the 6th harmonic of a virtual fundamental, but other times it is the 5th or even
the 7th harmonic. When the orchestra re-enters after the violin’s cadenza (the start of
the third section) a very intense effect is produced. The pseudo-perfect triads of the
orchestra, still slightly muddied by micro-intervals, have a very particular timbre. In
thickening the texture through the addition of microtonal colourings, the composer
does not create dissonances. Rather, the mix of harmonics he creates is similar to a
sort of filtering. The global sonority created is a bit nebulous—fuzzy, like the music of
an old film—where the upper harmonics have been lost through poor conservation
and where all that remains is a slightly vague and faraway sound universe. This
phenomenon gives Scelsi’s music its somewhat nostalgic sound.

The Sound as Formal Model: Inharmonic Sounds

Earlier, I brought up the idea of using the structure of instrumental sounds as a
model, from which new timbral arrangements can be extrapolated and upon which
new formal elements can be built—sometimes, even, the entire architecture of a piece
can come from these models. I would like to show two examples of this approach: an
200 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
electroacoustic work by Jonathan Harvey, Mortuos plango, vivos voco, and one of my
own pieces for orchestra, Gondwana. It just so happens that these two works both use
the sound of a bell as their model. Bell sounds belong in the ‘inharmonic’ class of
sounds. Let’s take a moment to discuss this class of instrumental sounds that do not
obey the usual model of the harmonic series.
Two large classes of spectra can be distinguished: harmonic spectra and
inharmonic spectra. The majority of orchestral instruments—wind and strings, for
example—produce basically harmonic spectra. These spectra are sometimes mixed
with a bit of noise from the bow or the breath: this is especially noticeable for the
strings and the flute. On the other hand, most percussion instruments and the piano
have more or less inharmonic spectra. This means that the mathematic relationships
between the components of their sounds (the ‘partials’) do not correspond to simple
integer ratios. We have previously seen examples of notes conforming to the
harmonic series: spectra where the frequency of each component partial is an integer
multiple of the fundamental frequency.8 The structure of any harmonic spectrum
follows this very simple rule. On the other hand, an inharmonic sound possesses
components that do not obey this rule. There is no single precise way of defining how
partials of inharmonic sounds relate to each other because, in contrast to harmonic
sounds, these potential relations are infinite. Nevertheless, there are structural models
of inharmonic sounds that are of special interest to us because they have been selected
by musicians through a slow historical process, a sort of ‘Darwinian’ evolution over
the course of centuries. Bell sounds, for example, have fascinated composers for ages:
Hector Berlioz in the Symphonie Fantastique (1830), Modest Mussorgsky in Boris
Gudonov (1868–1870), Claude Debussy, Maurice Ravel, Olivier Messiaen, etc. Figure
6 shows a schematic representation of the spectrum of a bell.
The fundamental is an F# and the harmonics of that fundamental are also present.
A slightly sharp A-natural (upward arrow) is interspersed in the harmonic series—
creating the non-harmonic sound of this bell. The frequency of the A in this example
is equal to the fundamental multiplied by 12/5.
This is the spectrum of a real bell, like the ones that ring in church steeples. Its
spectrum is different from that of an orchestral bell (tubular bell). With a sound like
this, though, we must be yet more precise: this is the spectrum of a European bell.
The spectrum of a Japanese bell—those enormous bells that one sees suspended at the
entrance of temples, and which the visitors strike with the help of a suspended

Figure 6 Schematic spectrum of a bell.

 Contemporary Music Review 201
beam—would be completely different. The principal characteristic of occidental bells
is the superposed presence of a major and a minor 3rd: a minor 3rd is interposed
within the spectrum that is otherwise relatively regular (harmonic) and based on a
fundamental, called the drone (‘bourdon’). This characteristic sound is consciously
sought after by bell-makers and the choice is certainly not the result of pure chance.
The minor 3rd represents an interesting complication within a harmonic spectrum. It
adds sufficient inharmonicity to render the spectrum richer, more interesting, but not
so much inharmonicity that the sound becomes too complex or too muddied. Very
often in metallic percussion sounds there is this type of harmonic structure, with a
harmonic spectrum modified and made more complex by a strategically chosen
additional frequency.
For practical reasons, tubular bells are used instead of traditional bells in the
orchestra. Unfortunately, though, the sound of tubular bells is nevertheless somewhat
different than the sound of real bells (see Figure 7).
This tubular bell’s sounding pitch—the note that would be written on the score
and which should, in this example be a C5—is not really present. There are, of course,
harmonics of this C: the C an octave higher (C6), the G6 (3rd harmonic) the C7 (4th
harmonic), and finally the 7th harmonic (a low Bb). The note C5, which should be
heard, is obtained by subtraction. It is created as a differential sound between the
different harmonics (through the perceptual phenomenon of ‘virtual fundamentals’).
Certain inharmonic partials are very clear: a D# (or Eb if one prefers) and a D-three-
quarter-tone-sharp (or slightly lowered E). These two partials create an internal
beating that enriches the spectrum of the tubular bell. Additionally, their relationship
to the (virtual) fundamental forms an interval close to a minor 3rd, and evokes the
sound of a bell. Finally, the very low sound is simply an attack transient that is weak
and resonates only briefly—transients of this kind are common in orchestral
percussion sounds. With this tubular bell, though the composer writes a C, listeners
will, in fact, hear all sorts of things—a D-three-quarter-tone, a C an octave higher
than the written note, etc. If you double the tubular bell with another instrument,
why not double it at the higher octave or even with the minor-major third—the
D 3/ 4 #? Obviously, with real tubular bells, things are not quite so simple, the spectra

Figure 7 Schematic spectrum of a tubular bell (on C5).

202 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
are not so neat, and it is probable that each set of tubular bells will sound a bit
different. In general, our percussion sounds are rather poorly defined. This is in
strong contrast to the art of percussion developed in a number of non-European
musical cultures. The variability of our percussion makes it difficult to use in a
controlled fashion within orchestral mixtures and all too often relegates its role to
that of sound effects or rhythmic punctuations. As Claude Debussy said, ‘Our
percussion is an art for the uncivilized (un art de sauvage).’
Figure 8a shows another prototype of metallic percussion: a little Japanese bell,
one of the small bells in the form of a bowl that are used in the temples—the
reason they are often called ‘temple bells’. The figure shows the components
detected by the computer in the bell’s spectrum. However, certain partials are
hardly audible. The low sounds probably represent a sort of attack transient—like
the one we saw in the tubular bell spectrum. By using ‘Terhardt’s algorithm’,9 we
will reduce this analysis to only the sounds that are perceptually important
(Figure 8b).

Figure 8 (a) Schematic spectrum of a small Japanese bell. (Transcription of an analysis

carried out at IRCAM with the program IANA.) (b) Spectrum of Japanese bell after
reduction using Terhardt’s algorithm.
 Contemporary Music Review 203
Thus simplified, the spectrum reveals a collection of sounds that comprise a
harmonic spectrum that is a bit warped, a bit distorted: the two Cs are slightly raised,
there is a B-quarter-tone (a false octave of the Cs), a G# raised slightly; and, strangely,
an F¼# is also part of this spectrum. In fact, one very often sees this inharmonic
partial formant that is a slightly large 4th (4th + quarter-tone, or approximately
augmented 4th ) above the fundamental (C to F¼#, in this case) with instruments
from this group of small metallic percussion—small Japanese or Tibetan bells,
crotales, etc.
How, then, can I write for these instruments? Either I must consider the note played
by the instrument as a pure symbol—I wrote a C and too bad if you heard something
else—or I must conceive of this instrumental sound as a specific sonic complex,
distinct from its notation, and try to use it as such. In the latter case, if I want to
integrate these sounds into a musical discourse, I must keep in mind the harmonic
relationships emanating from the instrument’s spectrum. The final result will certainly
be richer and more interesting than if I were simply to use the metallic percussion’s
timbre as a sound effect—an object placed within a context where its only relationship
to the discourse is metaphorical. When dealing with electronics, composers must often
confront sounds that are at least as complex as these bells and the same issue arises. To
integrate electronic sounds into the musical discourse, the composer must know their
precise make-up. The same is true for multiphonic sounds of wind instruments, which
generally possess many non-harmonic components. If one uses any of these sounds
simply for their colour, most of the time nothing more than a simple anecdotal effect
can be obtained. On the other hand, an effort to integrate them into a musical
discourse in a way that takes them as they are—complex sonic objects—and attempts
to compile a ‘grammar of complex sound objects’ can foster their true integration into
a musical discourse. Thus, these sounds will no longer appear as colouristic effects, but
as indispensable events within the totality of the musical discourse.

Jonathan Harvey: Mortuos plango, vivos voco

Jonathan Harvey used a bell as the main formal model for his work Mortuos plango,
vivos voco for eight-track tape (1980)—this work has since become a classic in the
genre. The piece is entirely based on the sound of a bell from Winchester Cathedral in
England (Figure 9).

Figure 9 The bell from Mortuos Plango.

204 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
To give a broad overview, this spectrum corresponds well to the theoretical model
of European church bell sounds presented above (Figure 6). It presents a more or less
regular harmonic series based on the fundamental C coloured by an inharmonic
partial (here a D# or Eb), which forms a minor 3rd with the fundamental. However,
this spectrum also contains sounds that are not part of the harmonic series: for
example, the 6th sound, an E¼#, which is a little too high, and which beats against
the 7th sound, an F, which is foreign to the harmonic series on C. According to the
composer, an additional, virtual sound (F3), which does not exist in the computer’s
analysis, is also heard—this is probably perceived as the resultant sound of a group of
high partials (through the perceptual phenomenon of ‘virtual fundamentals’
mentioned earlier). This one analysis (after various operations including filtering,
transposition, modification of intensity envelopes, etc.) will allow the creation of the
entire palette of synthetic sounds used in the piece.
The bell’s spectrum also serves as a formal model. Various pitches, selected from
the analysis, articulate the sections of the piece: each of the eight sections uses one of
these pitches (plus the virtual F) as harmonic pivot (Figure 10).
The length of each section is inversely proportional to its harmonic rank in the bell
spectrum (the rank being the ratio of the partial’s frequency to the fundamental
frequency). More precisely, the length of each section (in seconds) is equal to 200
divided by the ratio of the pivot pitch’s frequency to the frequency of the
fundamental (C3). This gives the following list of durations: 100, 33, 75, 37, 50, 30, 84
and 200.
A child’s voice is also heard in this piece. The boy soprano sings the Latin words
engraved on the bell (mortuos plango, etc.). Harvey introduces a relation between the
pivot pitches and the colours of the vowels heard in each section. When the pivot
pitch is high, vowels that have high formants like ‘ee’ (as in free) or ‘ae’ (as in play)
are used most often and when the pivot pitch is low, like at the end, one will often
hears ‘oo’ (as in you) and ‘o’ (as in hope). Finally rhythmic pulsations—analogous to
internal beating of the bell—animate each section. The speed of these pulsations is
also proportional to the frequencies of the pivot pitches, according to the following
relationship (results in pulses per second, Hz):

Frequency of the pivot pitch

Pulsation speed ðHzÞ ¼ $ 0:5
Frequency of the fundamental ðC3Þ

Figure 10 Pivot pitches.

 Contemporary Music Review 205
The pulsations for the various sections, calculated in this way, are (Hz) 1, 3, 1.33,
2.67, 2, 3.31, 1.19 and 0.5 respectively.
All of this could appear like a somewhat arbitrary theoretical game. However, the
composer’s use of these basic relationships allows him to create a succession of well-
characterized musical instants in which the rhythmic associations (pulsation, pitches,
timbre) function in a clear and ‘natural’ way. It creates a sort of rigorous formal plan,
within a well-defined framework (the universe of the bell), possessing well-known
archetypal correspondences: high/agitated/clear in opposition to low/slow-moving/
sombre. Moreover, the spectral pitches of the bell and the chosen pivot pitches confer
a quite distinctive colour to the music—evoking a certain modality and a harmonic
functionality close to tonal music, in spite of the fact that the music is by no means
‘tonal’.

Tristan Murail: Gondwana, for Orchestra (1980)

Like Mortuos plango, Gondwana explores the domain of inharmonic sounds.
Coincidentally, the two pieces date from the same year, but there is no overt
relationship between them, aside from the use of models of the bells and the
construction of relationships between sonic phenomena.
The bells of Gondwana are imaginary—in contrast to those of Mortuos plango. For
the beginning of the piece, I wanted to make large bell sonorities heard via the
orchestra. Not having a model at my disposal, and not looking, by any means, to
create a pure imitation of a sonic object, I thought of a mathematical technique used
in computer music to produce reasonably convincing bell-like sonorities called
‘frequency modulation’. This technique, developed by John Chowning and
popularized by Yamaha’s DX and TX series synthesizers, relies on the utilization of
two sound generators linked together in a particular manner, one called the ‘carrier’
and the other the ‘modulator’. The frequencies of the carrier and modulator combine
to produce a certain number of resultant sounds according to the formula:
f=c+I * m, where f is the resultant frequency, c is the carrier, m is the modulator, and
i is the index of modulation (i.e. the intensity of the effect). For example, if the carrier
equals 100 Hz, the modulator is 20 Hz, and the index of modulation varies by integer
steps, from 0 to 2, we will hear the following series of sounds:

index=0 : c+0m=c, so 100 Hz

index=1 : c+1m=120 Hz (100 + 20) and 80 Hz (100 - 20)
index=2 : c+2m=140 Hz (100 + 20 6 2) and 60 Hz (100 - 20 6 2)

These calculations are obviously very simple, at least in relation to the resultant
pitches (the corresponding calculation for the intensity of each component is much
more complicated). On the other hand, it is a bit more complex from the musical
point of view, since the calculations are realized in hertz and must be transformed
from frequencies into musical pitches (approximating them to the closest usable
206 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

Figure 11 First aggregate of Gondwana

musical note). If working with quarter-tones, it is necessary to look for the quarter-
tone closest to the calculated frequencies. Figure 11 shows the first orchestral
aggregate of Gondwana.
The carrier is a G, the modulator is a G#. When the index is equal to 1, one obtains
two resultant sounds: D¼#5 and F#3; when it is equal to two, one obtains G¼#5 and
an F# too low to be heard (which will be suppressed), etc. The aggregates in Figure 12
are constructed with other carriers—A, B, D, F#, successively, while the modulator
stays fixed on G#. This gives us the series of aggregates shown in Figure 12b.
This progression is organized in order of increasing harmonicity. In effect, a direct
correspondence exists between the more or less consonant or dissonant character of
the interval between the carrier and the modulator and the more or less harmonic or
inharmonic result of the modulation. Thus, the first aggregate is based on the
dissonant interval G#–G is very inharmonic. Then, as the intervals formed by the
carrier and modulator become increasingly consonant, the orchestral aggregates
progress towards harmonicity. The last aggregate of this section—towards which the
entire progression is oriented—does not in fact correspond to a frequency
modulation spectrum, but to an incomplete double harmonic spectrum, based on
the last two sounds of the modulator-carrier pair (G#–F#), each transposed one
octave lower (see Figure 13).
All of these aggregates seem quite complex to the eye, but to the ear they are less
complex than one might imagine. In effect, whether they come from the results of a
frequency modulation or a harmonic series, they share the ability to create a certain
degree of fusion among their components. This fusion is due to the very precise
 Contemporary Music Review 207

Figure 12 (a) Progression of the carriers. (b) Progression of frequency modulation

aggregates.

frequency relationships that these techniques generate, as well as the interplay of

intensities and timbres.
The amplitudes of the sounds resulting from a frequency modulation created by
the computer are highly variable and are a function of the index of modulation. They
208 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

Figure 13 Double harmonic spectrum from the end of the A section.

can be precisely calculated with Bessel functions, but it is rather complicated. In

composing Gondwana, I did not attempt to model frequency modulation with that
level of fidelity. I simply considered that, roughly speaking, the highest indices would
give the weakest intensities. To this general principle, the role of global dynamic
profiles must be added. It is well known that percussive envelopes enhance the effect
of fusion among the components of inharmonic spectra. The dynamic profile of a bell
sound is characterized not only by its percussive attack, but also by the different
evolutions of each of its partials. The high components disappear first, one after the
other, leaving only one sound in the end, simple and unique: called the ‘drone’. This
model inspired the dynamic profiles for the initial sonic complexes of Gondwana. The
attacks of the brass and woodwinds are reinforced by the percussion, and the high
components of the chords (the sounds with the highest modulation index values)
extinguish rapidly, leaving a G# resonating longer. This is the modulator, which
assumes the role of the drone in the piece.
We saw that a process leading to increasing harmonicity marked the harmonies of
the first section of Gondwana. A process of transformation also affects the dynamic
envelopes themselves. The point of departure is, of course, the profile of the bell,
which is associated with an inharmonic spectrum. At the point of arrival, the
orchestral aggregate has a profile similar to the dynamic envelope of a brass sound
and is associated with a semi-harmonic spectrum. The envelope of the bell has a
brutal attack, followed by an exponential extinction; as for the brass envelope, it has a
less abrupt attack transient, during which the harmonics enter progressively from
lowest to highest, forming the slightly delayed peak of intensity and timbre, which is
characteristic of a ‘brassy’ attack. This attack is followed by a phase of sustain that is
more or less stable. Figure 14 shows how the transformation from one profile to the
other operates—with a few of the intermediary forms whose attacks are being
progressively softened while a sustain phase, that was absent in the initial bell
envelope, gradually begins to appear.

Orchestral Realization of the First Section

I have often used the term ‘aggregate’, rather than ‘chord’; additionally, I have often
spoken of ‘fusion’. In effect, what I sought to create here were large synthetic
 Contemporary Music Review 209

Figure 14 Evolution of dynamic profiles from a ‘bell-type’ envelope to a ‘brass-type’

envelope.

sounds built from very specific orchestral combinations: a sort of ‘harmony-

timbre’, realized with ‘instrumental synthesis’ techniques. It is clear that the choice
of frequency relationships and of intensities is crucial. However, the orchestration
itself should also be carefully realized. Theoretically, to construct a spectrum—
whether harmonic or inharmonic—you add together pure (sinusoidal) tones: their
sum creates the perception of timbre. Of course, sinusoidal sounds are only
available with electronic techniques; so when instrumental sounds are used instead,
one also adds the spectral components of each of the instruments to the theoretical
(model) spectrum. The obtained aggregate will thus be much more complex than
any theoretical model. Obviously, the complexity of this final aggregate depends on
the chosen instrumental timbres. For example, if I had orchestrated my aggregates
with bassoons, oboes, brass with straight mutes, strings, etc., I would have added so
many additional harmonics that the final result would have been beyond complex,
muddied. The harmonic structure of the spectra calculated by frequency
modulation risked being drowned out by the multitude of extra partials emitted
by the orchestra. Therefore, I used instruments with spectra that were somewhat
less rich, whenever possible.
The heart of each chord, which corresponds to the sounds with the lowest indices
of modulation and thus the strongest amplitudes, is played by the brass. The sound of
the brass, without mutes, is somewhat concentrated on the first harmonics, and thus
stays rather clear. The sounds corresponding to higher index values are higher in
pitch but also softer and so are logically played by the woodwinds. The strings are not
used in these chords at all, since their spectra are too rich and slightly noisy; using
them would risk blurring the effect of orchestral re-synthesis. The oboes are used, but
generally play in the high register, where their spectrum is simpler. Some percussion
(tubular bells, vibraphone) gives sharpness to the attack transients of the bell-like
chords: as the progression of aggregates changes from the ‘bell’ model to the ‘brass’
model, with its softer attack, the percussion sounds will become desynchronized with
the attack and finally disappear totally. Finally, to create the ‘drone’ of the bell, I
needed a sound as pure as possible: I finally chose the tuba because it possesses a
timbre that is very centred on the fundamental in this register (G#3). (This is the
reason that orchestration treatises will often describe the tuba as ‘voluminous’, or
claim that its timbre is ‘large’. Contrastingly, the oboe or the violin, for example, are
often described as ‘sharp’ or ‘intense’, signifying the fact that their harmonics are
quite widely dispersed over their entire spectrum.)
210 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

Figure 15 Frequency modulation based ‘wave-like’ contours—section F of Gondwana.

The technique of frequency modulation, that was used to build block structures
(large harmony–timbre aggregates) in this first section of Gondwana, is also used
to create various other forms and contours in other passages of the piece. For
example, in section F, pitches created through frequency modulation will produce
sets of harmonic-melodic structures, sorts of ‘fan-shaped’ contours. A central
frequency, C1/4#4, a remnant of the preceding process, becomes the carrier. The
modulator, very small at first, increases progressively as the index of modulation
increases. Instead of sounding all together, the pairs of resultant sounds (each
‘pair’ consists of an additional sound and a differential sound) enter one after the
other. This creates this effect of ‘fanning’ around a central frequency, like waves
breaking on the shore. This effect is similar to the one produced by progressively
raising the intensity of the modulator while synthesizing frequency modulated
sounds in an electronic music studio. The first waves present a very small
 Contemporary Music Review 211
frequency interval (owing to the small modulator and low index), then a process
begins to manifest itself. This process grows and spreads until the contours amply
fill out the full tessitura of the orchestra. These wave-like contours are played by
the oboes, English horns and bassoons: the idea was to highlight these contours—
hence the choice of instruments with very rich timbres that stand out from the
resonance, played by the brass and strings, like the effect of a piano’s sustain
pedal applied to the orchestra.
Figure 15 shows the first four and last two ‘waves’ of frequency modulation in
section F. There are very narrow intervals at the beginning—almost like glissandi
around the carrier—and large sweeps at the end. In the final orchestration, the
approximation was often made to the nearest semitone because the passages had to
be played so rapidly. In the last two waves, the sounds that are too low have been
eliminated. You will notice that the lower line of these last two waves starts off
descending, like in the other waves, but then rises up again. This is called a foldover
effect: for high values of the modulation index, the resultant differential (c–i*m)
becomes negative (because i*m4c). A ‘negative’ frequency obviously cannot really
exist—at least not in the universe we know. Therefore, we can simply ignore the
‘minus’ sign (in reality the ‘negative’ sign of the frequency is manifested as an
inversion of phase, which does not concern us here). So the differential frequencies
start to increase again once i*m becomes greater than c and end up interspersed
within the additional sounds. This phenomenon considerably enriches the harmonic
or timbral texture, and is often sought after in synthesis by frequency modulation.
The aggregates in the first section of Gondwana contain a very strong foldover effect.
Let’s continue our study of the concept of models—in particular, the notion of
instrumental timbre as a model—by examining another piece: Désintégrations. This
piece both allows us to study various processes and to begin speaking about the role of
the computer in musical composition.

Désintégrations (1982–1983) for Ensemble and Tape

Section I
The techniques used in this piece are mostly quite clear. Its compositional elements
are easily perceived and isolated—in contrast to my more recent pieces, where the
structures are more interwoven and thus more difficult to analyse. This is why I often
use Désintégrations to present some of my ideas and techniques.
One of the fundamental ideas of Désintégrations was that an excellent fusion
between instruments and the electronic sounds could be achieved. How could these
two sound worlds—so contrasting in their superficial appearances—be made to
communicate? The solution was to use the same procedures to generate both the
instrumental harmonies and the synthetic timbres. The instrumental timbres used as
models, or at least as points of departure, inform the generation, within a single
framework, of both harmonic structures and electronic spectra.
212 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
The first section of the piece uses a piano sound (C1), whose analysis we have
already seen. This time, let’s look at just the first 50 harmonics (Figure 16). As before,
the numbers on the left in each column indicate the harmonic ranks, and the
numbers on the right give the relative intensity of each harmonic. The loudest
harmonic arbitrarily receives the value 1. These numbers represent relative linear
intensities, not decibels (dB). The groups of partials comprising the formants
(loudest zones of resonance) are in bold and enclosed in rectangles. These groups are
not the loudest in an absolute sense, but they represent peaks of intensity relative to

Figure 16 Formants of C1 on the piano.

 Contemporary Music Review 213
neighbouring partials. For example, the partials in the group 35, 36, 37, 38 have
amplitudes equal to 0.168, 0.1121, 0.1963, 0.1002 respectively, which are much louder
than the preceding group, 31–34 (intensities between 0.007 and 0.0819), and louder
than the following group, 39–41 (intensities between 0.0132 and 0.0435). This
ensemble of formant groups defines a very characteristic spectral structure—that is
why it interested me.
Let’s translate this list of numbers into musical notation; we’ll keep only the
formants defined above and approximate to the nearest quarter-tone. For this
example, the fundamental has been transposed to A#0, one of the spectra actually
used in this piece (Figure 17).
We are now going to create aggregates by intuitively selecting certain pitches from
this spectrum (which was already reduced to its principal formants). For example, the
first aggregate contains the harmonics 7, 11, 13, 20,29 and 36 (Figure 18).
Here again, I prefer to speak of an aggregate rather than a chord, because these
combinations of sounds serve equally well in the synthesis of electronic sonorities as
they do in writing instrumental parts. Since the electronic synthesis adds together
very pure, quasi-sinusoidal sounds, the partials tend to fuse strongly. Thus, the
resultant aggregate does not really sound like a chord, but like a single perceptual
object, a timbre. On the other hand, the instrumental orchestration of this object
creates a sonority more like what is usually called a ‘harmony’, owing to the
individual richness of each of the instruments used (the presence of harmonics in the
instrumental sound, the complex envelope of the sound, the vibrato, etc.). The global
result is nevertheless a bit ambiguous, since the electronic sounds and instrumental
harmonies are heard simultaneously. Once again, the most accurate descriptor may
be the hybrid term ‘harmony-timbre’.

Figure 17 Spectrum transposed to A#0.

Figure 18 First aggregate.

214 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

Figure 19 Succession of aggregates on the fundamentals A# and C#.

Section A of Désintégrations presents a succession of aggregates developed from

this model. In fact, two series of aggregates alternate, according to a process I will
describe later. The first series is based on the fundamental A#0 and the other is based
on C#2. While this alternation certainly introduces some variety in the aggregates
used, it also clarifies the relationship between the harmonic series of A# and C#. As
with the bell spectrum we saw earlier, the highlighted relation is that of a minor 3rd,
or more precisely a minor 10th.
These two series of chords are organized according to two temporal curves: two
superimposed rallentandi. The addition of these two curves produces a global
slowing, containing local irregularities. The two series of aggregates alternate more or
less irregularly, while progressively being enriched through the addition of lower
partials and growing closer together in time—until a collision occurs. From the
moment of collision onwards, the aggregates based on A#0 and those based on C#2
occur simultaneously—creating a sonority somewhat similar to a bell.
To organize these rallentandi, I used a graphic representation of the process,
reproduced in Figure 20. Time is on the abscissa and the durations are on the
ordinate axis. By duration, I mean the interval of time between two aggregates of the
same series. The durations are measured in seconds—not in rhythmic values. The
upper curve corresponds to the series built on the fundamental A# and the aggregates
are indicated by Latin letters; the Greek letters and the lower curve correspond to the
series built on the fundamental C#. The series built on C# begins with shorter
durations than the A# series, then progressively the temporal intervals between the
sounds of both series get longer. At letter k the two curves join—the aggregates on
both A# and C# sound simultaneously and the duration of the event k is 14 seconds
for both aggregates. The only part of this process not shown on the graph is the very
first event, an aggregate built on A# which occurs 7 seconds before the first C#-based
aggregate (letter a)—i.e. 7 seconds before time 0 of the graph. The rest of the graph
should be read in the following manner: the event a lasts 3 seconds and occurs at the
 Contemporary Music Review 215

Figure 20 Rallentando curves—Désintégrations I.

instant 0; it is followed by an event b that lasts 3.2 seconds and that begins at instant 3
seconds, then by an event a that occurs at the instant 3.5 seconds—the Latin letter
indicating that this event belongs to the other spectral series—etc.
To create the feeling of progressive slowing, I used curves, not straight lines. It
would have been simpler to make straight lines between the points of departure and
arrival; however, the resulting progression would have been linear. Whereas,
observation of instrumental reality shows that instrumentalists, when asked to play a
rallentando, will intuitively perform logarithmic slowing down of event durations—
not a linear progression. A linear progression (of the ‘chromatic durations’ variety)
would not create a ‘natural’ impression; rather, it would create a constrained effect,
which sounds awkward to the ear. Here, we are jumping ahead into a new subject:
algorithm and intuition. The way I’m using the word ‘intuition’ amounts to a list of
intentions: ‘My first object will not last for very long; my last object will last 14
seconds; the process will be organized as a progressive slowing which should last
between 1 and 2 minutes.’ ‘Intuition’ would also include observing how musicians
and listeners react to this series of events organized in time—this is a sort of
experimenting with the musical ‘intuitions’ of those who will be participants in the
musical act (the listener and the performer). The algorithm itself is simply a series of
operations—logical or arithmetical—which allow a result, based upon a set of input
data (parameters), to be calculated. In this specific case, the algorithm allows me to
216 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
create the optimal curve for this rallentando process and also to calculate the
intermediate steps of this process. To define an algorithm, one must create a model of
the phenomenon one seeks to recreate: in this case, the manner in which a musician
performs a rallentando. This model allows a curve to be calculated—a mathematical
function, whose starting parameters are the intuitive estimation of the durations at
the outset and the arrival of the process (and possibly also a timeframe, which will
help the process fit within the global form).
I started thinking about time in terms of process, durations and functions before I
had access to computational techniques—these techniques facilitate algorithmic
calculation, which often requires their use. Even in Désintégrations—where the
computer was used as a sound synthesizer, a means of creating some of the formal
structures and carrying out certain spectral or temporal calculations—I turned to
empirical and graphic solutions. ‘Computer-aided composition’ programs did not yet
exist; thus, it was cumbersome to address these musical problems with environments
that were not very ‘user-friendly’. Moreover, my computer skills were still
rudimentary. This led to the use of graphs like the example we just saw. In that
specific case, I had to proceed by successive approximations, through ‘trial and error’,
modifying the initial parameters, etc. The constraints I had set myself were numerous
and sometimes contradictory: how to make two curves converge in a harmonious
manner, while still creating two convincing continuous rallentandi, and making all of
this occur in a set period of time. The computer would have been very helpful, if I
could have used it: computers can very rapidly calculate and simulate various
situations. It’s easy to start over and try, try again until a satisfactory result has been
found. The ‘algorithmic’ techniques of computer music need not necessarily be used
to create a predestined, automatically calculated, result. On the contrary, they can
allow the exploration of a larger field of possibilities; thereby heightening the freedom
of the composer—not limiting it.
Let’s return to the two rallentando curves: what makes them interesting is their
superposition. Instead of a simple rallentando, the alternation of points situated on each
curve creates an unexpected and unstable rhythmic progression; all the while conserving
the global impression of slowing down, since the durations (on average) are increasingly
long. The process is ‘directed’ (listeners perceive it as ‘going towards something’), but at
the same time this process still produces unpredictable rhythmic configurations. This is
a very simple example of the interplay of predictability and unpredictability: my feeling
is that this interplay is one of the central issues in musical composition. On the one
hand, a work needs to be part of a sufficiently predictable universe that the listener can
perceive continuity and coherence in the musical discourse; however, at the same time,
if the discourse is too predictable the work rapidly becomes uninteresting. Structural
predictability needs to be contradicted constantly by some type of unpredictability
within the discourse. However, it is also essential that this surprise, this unexpected
aspect, integrates logically and in a coherent fashion, a posteriori, over the course of the
form. The shock, the surprise, even the incongruous, should become explicable, should
reintegrate itself as a necessary element of the discourse (in hindsight). If this does not
 Contemporary Music Review 217
happen, the unexpected becomes simply arbitrary and the effect of surprise will be
dulled on subsequent hearings. A totally unpredictable discourse does not hold a
listener’s attention any better than a totally predictable discourse. It is ironic that
extreme randomness yields the same sensation of total unpredictability for a listener as
does the total organization of the discourse—like the principles experimented with in
‘algorithmic’ music or in ‘integral serial’ music. It turns out that perpetual surprise is no
longer surprising, and unpredictability can became too predictable to be interesting.
The preceding example illustrates the way I conceive of temporal control. I do not
work with durations by combining small elements, pulsations or rhythmic
microstructures; on the contrary, I take a global point of view, conceiving the totality
of a temporal segment and, through successive attempts, trying to determine the
details of how the durations must evolve. I proceed in basically this same way for all of
the dimensions of the musical discourse. The first section of Désintégrations, in fact,
unites many separate processes involving the durations, the harmony and the timbre.
These processes are in a strict relationship with one another. The harmonic and
timbral processes evolve simply from harmonicity at the start of the piece to
inharmonicity at the end of section I. As we saw earlier, the aggregates at the start of
this process are fragments of a harmonic series. Their lack of lower components,
however, makes them a little less stable, a little more ‘suspended’ than complete
harmonic spectra would have been. Over the course of the process, the lower portion
of the spectra are more fully explored. Once the rhythmic collision between the two
rallentandi occurs, the two aggregate series continue in superposition. There are two
simultaneous fundamentals, yielding a resultant aggregate that is not really harmonic
anymore. Moreover, for the last three of these aggregates, some harmonics are
progressively transposed one octave lower—reinforcing the impression of inharmo-
nicity. (One way to measure the harmonicity of an aggregate is to consider its ‘virtual
fundamental’. The lower this ‘virtual fundamental’ is, the more inharmonic the
aggregate. Moving a harmonic one octave lower often amounts to pushing the virtual
fundamental one octave lower, thus rendering the aggregate more inharmonic.)
(Figure 21).
This procedure of harmonic transformation was widely employed by Gérard Grisey
(see the first section of Partiels for ensemble, 1975). In the last section of
Désintégrations, it’s the entire spectrum that slides down, octave after octave, until
reaching, for the final sound, a virtual fundamental G–3 with a spectra possessing
only one out of every 10 harmonics (5, 15, 25, 35, etc.). The sonic effect produced is
strangely similar to the sound of a tam-tam (Figure 22).
The orchestration reinforces the effect of a ‘drift towards inharmonicity’ present in
section I. At the start of the section, I use timbres that respect the harmonicity of the
aggregates as much as possible. In other words, I use relatively transparent
instrumental timbres: flutes and clarinets. Progressively, the other instruments appear
in a very precise order. First to enter is a muted horn, whose timbre is very filtered and
poor in harmonics. Next, the string instruments enter. They begin by playing
harmonics or sul tasto (another way to filter the spectrum). Then, a few measures later,
218 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

Figure 21 The three last aggregates of section I. Note: The aggregates result from the
superposition of spectra built on A# and C#. The harmonics transposed down by one or
more octaves are boxed.

the strings move to ordinario playing. When the spectra of the aggregates has become
still richer, it’s the oboe’s turn to enter. The oboe plays in the high register (C¼#6) at
first. Because, while the low register of the oboes has a very rich spectrum, its high
register (in the region of C6) has a much simpler spectrum, very centred on the
fundamental—resembling quite a bit, in fact, the clarinet’s or flute’s spectrum.10
Once the two spectral series collide, creating really rich spectra, the other
instruments enter (bassoon, brass). Obviously, these instruments, with very rich
spectra, add their own harmonics to the theoretical aggregates and could confuse the
 Contemporary Music Review 219

Figure 22 Final sound of Désintégrations (frequency components contained within the

electronic sound).

sonic result. However, at this point in the process the added richness only reinforces
the spectral complexity that has been attained. Even better, I can draw on the added
spectral richness. Let’s take the example of the aggregate in bar 34, the penultimate
aggregate of this harmonic process (Figure 23). The horns and the double reeds play
five of the aggregate’s central pitches. They are playing forte with accents so they add
their own harmonics powerfully. The tape part takes up the spectra of these five
instruments and progressively unfurls their additional harmonics, all the way up to
the 23rd partial. It is almost as if we were applying a gain filter tuned to higher and
higher frequencies in the instrumental sounds. This process makes clearly audible the
harmonics of harmonics.
At the end of this sonic spiral, the very high harmonics form a very brilliant
‘cluster’. The strings then take up certain pitches of the cluster—in regular sounds or
in harmonics—and a high cymbal joins the strings, with the hope that the frequency
band of the cymbal will be in the same region as that of the synthetic sounds.
Unfortunately, this is not always the case. The imprecise definitions of percussion
instruments are a recurring problem. In the score, when requesting a high or low
cymbal, a high or low tam-tam, it’s never clear just what kind of sound will be
produced. If your only concern is a colouristic or emotional effect, this is not a big
problem. However, if one is looking for a more precise effect, like the one described
here (an effect of integration between instrumental and electronic sounds), the
problem becomes crucial. Just as a microphone is defined by its frequency response
curve, it would be useful for a cymbal to be delivered with its spectrogram and
defined by a frequency band, rather than the impossibly vague descriptions ‘high’,
‘medium’, ‘low’, etc.

Role of the Tape

The tape and the instruments carry out different types of dialogues. In the preceding
example, the tape took up and developed the pitches originating from the
220 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

Figure 23 Transformations of the aggregate, bar 34.

instrumental spectra—enriching and modifying the instrumental sounds. Most often,

I am looking for an effect of intimate complementarity, of fusion, sometimes even of
ambiguity between the electronic and the acoustic sounds. The percussive aggregates
at the end of section I sound like powerful bells: within these sounds, it is not possible
to distinguish the contributions of the instruments from those of the electronics. In
section II, the tape amplifies the instrumental ensemble, making it sound almost like
an orchestra. In particular, this is due to a multitude of superposed trills with variable
speeds, each trill built on an instrumental partial. This idea of applying a sort of virtual
processing to the instruments is also found in section III, where the English horn solo
is doubled by changing imaginary formants of its own spectrum—creating the effect of
virtual filtering. The electronics can also fill in instrumental gaps. At the beginning of
section III, the piano and percussion play clouds of very high percussive sounds, while
the tape completes these clouds with the non-tempered pitches that those instruments
cannot play. At other moments, the tape simply clarifies the instrumental discourse,
particularly with regard to rhythm. In section IV, the instruments play a very rapid
series of low chords; normally, in this register, the attacks cannot be very clear, and the
rhythms—a succession of different rallentandi—would hardly be audible. However, to
make this effect clear, the tape adds attack transients to the instrumental sounds. The
tape can also perform other utilitarian roles, like helping obtain precise micro-
intervals. This can be done by giving a reference to the instrumentalists, when the
 Contemporary Music Review 221
electronics give the instrumental pitches, or by creating fusion between the
instruments and the tape when they double each other’s notes—if the deviation is
not too large, even when their intonation is not exactly the same, the resultant
complex of pitches will be essentially correct.
Perfect synchrony between the electronic sounds and the instrumental ensemble is
indispensable if the tape is to play these different roles. When Désintégrations was
premiered in 1983, there was no computer technology that could easily play back
synthetic sounds in real-time from a computer. We therefore had to store the sounds
on a tape, which runs without interruption from one end of the piece to the other.
This poses the problem of how to achieve synchronization. Coordination between the
tape and the instruments is achieved through a ‘click track’: ‘clicks’ are placed on one
track of the multichannel tape and the conductor hears these clicks through
headphones. The clicks accurately reproduce the measures and the beats of the score.
This technique allows near-perfect synchronization, but it takes a lot of interpreta-
tional liberty away from the conductor: he absolutely cannot change the tempi.11

Frequency Shifting in Section III

We saw the use of inharmonic spectra derived from the analysis of bell sounds. There
are many other types of inharmonic spectra, originating from the analyses of acoustic
sounds or from studio techniques for sound processing. One of the oldest studio
techniques is ring modulation. Stockhausen, for example, used this technique in
Mixtur and then again in Mantra. The orchestra in Mixtur and the two pianos in
Mantra are transformed by ring modulators. While Stockhausen is clearly aware of
the effects of harmonicity and inharmonicity caused by diverse intervals between
carrier frequencies of the ring modulators and the notes played on the piano, he does
not precisely calculate the resultant pitches. More importantly, he does not take these
into account in his (otherwise quite elaborate) system of pitches—the theoretical
pitches, thus, contradict the sounds used in the piece.
Let’s briefly review the principle of ring modulation: two sound sources enter a
modulator—let’s call their respective frequencies ‘a’ and ‘b’. The resultant sound is
the addition and subtraction of those frequencies: a + b and a – b. If ‘a’ and ‘b’ are
pure frequencies, these formulas would be sufficient to describe fully the resultant
sonority. In reality, though, ring-modulators usually have an instrumental source for
‘a’ and an electronic, sinusoidal sound for ‘b’ (as is the case in the Stockhausen works
mentioned above). In this configuration, the first input to the modulator is
connected to a more or less complex spectrum captured by a microphone, and all of
this sound’s components are modulated by the sinusoidal sound ‘b’ in the second
input. If the instrument has three significant harmonics, the resultant will contain the
following frequencies: a + b, 2a + b, 3a + b, and a – b, 2a – b, 3a – b. As this example
shows, it is easy to calculate the resultant sounds of a ring modulation as long as the
modulated sounds are not too complex. The paradigm of ring modulation allows the
creation of new types of harmonic relationships and can serve as a model—this time
222 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
technological—for the creation of new spectra. The exploration of this model can
take place in the realm of mixed music, or within purely instrumental music. In
Partiels, Gérard Grisey calculates the virtual ring modulations of two instrumental
lines played by flutes or clarinets, and creates secondary lines from the results, which
are orchestrated in the strings—these lines form a strange sort of counterpoint with
the principal lines. Désintégrations uses the model of ring modulation in several
places (e.g. section II, section IX). Both the instruments and the tape play the
calculated notes; however, in these cases, it is actually a simulation of modulation, not
real-time or pre-recorded electronic processing. A variation on ring modulation is
frequency shifting. With this technique, a frequency is added to or subtracted from a
complex of sounds. This produces a linear transposition in terms of frequencies and
thus creates a non-linear transposition in terms of intervals.

Figure 24 Example of frequency shifting.

 Contemporary Music Review 223
Figure 24 is taken from the end of Les Courants de l’Espace for ondes Martenot with
electronic processing and orchestra. A ring modulator modifies the sound of the
ondes; the orchestra plays sonic complexes using the pitches that result from the
modulation—or, in this example, from frequency shifting.
In the above example, an aggregate F#–C (a bit lowered)–E–C (a bit lowered)
slides upwards 208 Hz, resulting in a completely different chord: G–Bb–C¼#–F¼#.
The distance in hertz between the pitches stay the same, but the intervals are all
changed. Like ring modulation, there have long been electronic devices that can
perform this effect in real-time (frequency-shifters): causing instrumental sounds to
be transposed in the frequency domain. Since this effect is applied equally to the
fundamentals of the sounds and to their harmonics, the harmonics themselves
become distorted and the instrumental spectra become inharmonic. A piano sound
treated this way takes on a ‘gamelan’-like sonority, somewhat like the sound of a
prepared piano (and for much the same reason: the preparation of the piano often
makes its spectrum more inharmonic). On the other hand, a very rich instrumental
sound (e.g. a chord in the strings) produces a resultant which is very ‘noisy’ and
difficult to control.
In section III of Désintégrations, frequency shifting is applied to a five-note
aggregate, a fragment of the harmonic series (harmonics 3, 5, 7, 9, and 11 of F1;
Figure 25).
This aggregate is the consequence, the consolidation, of the resonances produced
by the clouds of high percussion that open the section. The five sounds are exchanged
between the woodwinds and muted brass, like a distant carillon that has been slowed
down. Once the initial texture is established, the aggregate progressively drifts in
frequency towards the low register, becoming gradually more inharmonic. Since the
shifting of frequencies is downward towards the low register, the intervals enlarge
progressively; when viewed in terms of notes, lower notes descend by greater intervals
than higher notes which have been shifted by the same frequency. The tinkling of
small bells from the beginning of the section continues and undergoes the effects of
the frequency shift. The ‘carillon’ speeds up until it reaches the point where an
English horn highlights certain pitches—forming short melodic phrases. The level of
agitation increases, accompanying ever-stronger frequency shifts. The melodic
phrases accelerate and accumulate more and more elements until a sort of

Figure 25 Fragment of harmonic spectrum, beginning of section III.

224 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
‘catastrophe’ occurs. In other words, there is such an upheaval of the texture that the
music shifts into a completely new territory.
The frequency shifting does not occur with a simple glissando, but through a series
of discrete steps. Thus we are dealing with a new process: from a point of departure
(the five-note aggregate), the frequencies shift by a certain quantity of hertz, over a
given period of time, through a certain number of steps. The amount of shifting is
determined by the arrival point: more precisely, by the lowest note in the final
aggregate (here it is a C#2). The frequency shift required to accomplish this is 61.5 Hz
(the distance in hertz between C3 and C#2). Temporal constraints and duration
curves determine the number of steps: 11. When 61.5 Hz is divided into 11 equal
steps, and the result is used to generate successive frequency shifts of out original
aggregate, the result as shown in Figure 26 is obtained.
The overall process clearly moves from harmonicity to inharmonicity, but the
intermediate results are not necessarily what we wanted to obtain: the intervallic
configuration of these aggregates either can reinforce or contradict the global process
(note the splendid F major triad in this example). Of course, the unanticipated results
could be adjusted to break up a process that is too predictable. As calculated, this
harmonic succession seems somewhat incoherent: should the algorithm be changed?
It is hard to imagine a calculation that could resolve this type of question; only the
intuition and craft of the composer will ensure that good decisions are made. The
solution, in this case, was to calculate many more steps than needed (25) and to
choose from among those steps in order to create a succession that seemed to make
harmonic sense. The progression that results from this is slightly irregular and less
smoothly progressive than the previous sequence; however, in the end it works much
better (see Figure 27).

Figure 26 Frequency shifting in 11 equal steps.

Figure 27 Frequency shift, final solution.

 Contemporary Music Review 225
The global shift towards inharmonicity is certainly still there; however, the local
progressions now seem equally satisfying and no longer contradict the general
process. Moreover, a slightly unpredictable quality has been introduced to the
progression. The whole problem is to reconcile these two aspects of the musical
discourse: the directionality of the process and the functionality of the harmony.
Harmony must be an essential element of a musical discourse and must have an
intimate relationship to the form. In numerous musical aesthetics, where harmony
no longer performs a functional role, this notion has almost completely disappeared.
But in my music, I have always tried to give harmony a real functional role, and I
believe this role is very powerful. For me, harmony is not reduced to a purely
decorative role and it does not merely serve as a colouration of time as it passes (we
will come back to this later).

Sections VIII, IX and X

Let’s look at one last passage from the piece: sections VIII, IX and X. This passage
contains a new type of inharmonic spectrum. To simplify the explanation, I would
like to discuss some theoretical ideas about different types of spectra. In order to do
this, I will represent them as mathematical functions.
The harmonic series can be represented by a simple linear equation: p=f*r, where
the frequency of the partial (p) is equal to the frequency value of the fundamental (f)
multiplied by the partial’s harmonic rank (r being a positive integer). This function is
displayed in Figure 28 as a graph: the harmonic rank is on the abscissa and the
frequency is on the ordinate axis. The black points indicate the positions of the
partials.
This graph corresponds to any linear equation in the form y=ax, and allows us to
represent a harmonic spectrum by a line. Now let’s examine frequency modulation;
we saw earlier that it is represented by the equation: f=c+m*i. We can also write this
equation as f=m*i+c, if we state that i can have both negative and positive values.
This shows that we are, in fact, dealing with another linear equation, but one in the
form y=ax+b (‘b’ corresponds to ‘c’, the carrier; ‘a’ corresponds to ‘m’, the
modulator; and i, the index of modulation, corresponds to x and serves as the
equation’s variable. The graph of this equation is also a line. The only difference
between this line and the one representing the harmonic series is that this line does
not necessarily pass through the origin (0,0) of the graph (Figure 29).
The representation of spectra created through frequency shifting or ring
modulation would be very similar to that of frequency modulation. It is possible
to draw the conclusion from these graphs that harmonic spectra and the inharmonic
spectra produced by frequency modulation or ring modulation possess a certain
kinship, which comes from the regular spacing of the partials in terms of
frequencies.12 Moreover, the whole family of frequency modulation spectra has a
certain familial character, which is easily perceived. At the beginning, when one starts
to explore the possibilities offered by a DX713, for example, or to synthesize frequency
226 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

Figure 28 Graph of the harmonic spectrum.

Figure 29 Graph of a frequency modulation spectrum.

 Contemporary Music Review 227
modulation sounds on a computer, it seems that an amazing variety of timbres can be
obtained; however, rather rapidly, the impression of always hearing the same type of
sounds starts to set in and soon it feels like you have exhausted the entire repertoire
of sounds the technique can produce. This is also part of the reason why computer
music from a certain era always seems to sound similar: frequency modulation was
relatively easy to do with the programs in use at the time.
Given these limitations, let’s look for some new models to enrich our repertoire of
inharmonic sounds. Their spectra will need to present a more unequal spacing
between partials if we do not want to end up with the same set of problems. Metallic
percussion has just this type of spectrum: a series of regularly spaced partials
disrupted by the presence of a few inharmonic partials. Another, less expected
candidate is the piano. The sound of the piano is, in fact, slightly inharmonic. We can
use the 16th harmonic as a point of reference. If the sound of the piano were perfectly
harmonic, the 16th harmonic would be exactly four octaves above the fundamental.
However, in reality, it sounds approximately one half-step higher. This phenomenon,
of course, affects all of the piano’s partials and does so proportionally to their rank—
the higher the partials, the stronger the deviation. This explains why the high register
of pianos is tuned higher than it ought to be and the low register is tuned lower than
it ought to be. If you want ‘just’ octaves (octaves that do not beat) in relation to the
piano’s spectrum, you must enlarge them slightly.
Since the 16th harmonic is too weak, it is not represented here (Figure 30). The
17th harmonic, in theory, should be close to a C#; in reality, though, it is closer to a
D. The greater the rank of a partial, the farther it is from the theoretical position it
would have if the piano were perfectly harmonic.
I often use the following equation to model this phenomenon, which I refer to as
‘harmonic distortion’: p=f*rd, that is, the frequency of the partial (p) equals the

Figure 30 Harmonic distortion of the piano spectrum.

228 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
fundamental frequency (f) multiplied by the harmonic rank (r) raised to the power of
d (distortion).
If d is equal to 1, we end up with a linear equation of the form y=ax + b; thus, we
obtain a harmonic series. If d is greater than 1, the harmonic series is stretched (like
the piano); if d is less than one, the harmonic series is compressed.
Figure 31 shows a representation of the harmonic distortion of that same piano
spectrum in the form of a graph. On the abscissa we have the ranks of the partials,
and on the ordinate the frequencies. The non-distorted harmonic series forms a
straight line (darker points); the lighter points—which represent the spectrum with
harmonic distortion—form a curve that progressively departs from the straight line.
Figure 32 gives two examples of imaginary distortions, applied to a spectrum of
only odd harmonics. The coefficient of distortion is expressed as a percentage in this
example: 3% corresponds to d=1.03, –7% corresponds to d=0.93. This observation
about the piano spectrum and the formalization derived from it will allow us to
generalize a new process. We can play with the idea of harmonic distortion: perhaps
by exaggerating this phenomenon, we can generate a completely new family of
spectra—and thus of timbres and harmonies.

Figure 31 Graph of the distortion of the piano.

 Contemporary Music Review 229

Figure 32 Distortion spectra.

Now we arrive at section X of Désintégrations (Figure 33). The starting point for
this section is a low E played by the trombone. The tape takes up the trombone’s
harmonics, calling attention to them through successive entries. It then distorts the
trombone’s spectrum by progressively displacing the partials (in fact the fundamental
of the tape’s spectrum is the E an octave lower than the trombone’s—as if the
trombone were playing the 2nd harmonic). To illustrate what is happening, let’s
choose the 12th harmonic as a point of reference: in a harmonic spectrum, it should
be a B4. For the first step of the distortion process, this 12th harmonic is raised by
one quarter-tone to B¼#4. This operation is carried out eight successive times, so
that at the end of the process, the 12th harmonic has been raised from B4 to D#4 by
steps of a quarter-tone. Obviously, all of the other harmonics are recalculated as a
function of this reference displacement.
230 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

Figure 33 Progressive distortion of the trombone spectrum, section X.

 Contemporary Music Review 231
The final spectrum is obviously quite different from the original spectrum; it has
also lost all of its ‘trombone’ colour. Yet, the transformation is very progressive: it
occurs as a series of cross-fading spectral slides. Over the course of the section, the
tension gradually increases, as a result of the ever-greater inharmonicity of the
increasingly distorted spectra (and also through the simpler effects of register and
voice-leading).
Section VIII also depends on the use of distortion spectra. However, here, there
is no acoustic model: the spectra are determined simply through calculation. There
are two reference points, this time: the 3rd harmonic and the 21st harmonic. The
21st harmonic rises by steps of a quarter-tone until it has risen from F¼# to G 3/ 4 #;
the 3rd harmonic rises by half-steps. This creates an upward frequency slide and an
effect of compression simultaneously. The first step in realizing this progression
consisted of calculating, in order, the six different distortion spectra—to which the
initial spectrum was also added. If I had stopped there, the result would have been
an extremely predictable process, like the one in section X. I sought this
predictability in section X because it provoked a high degree of tension that could
only be resolved through a ‘catastrophe’—a sort of explosion (the opening of
section XI). In the passage we are interested in here, I needed a more static effect
that would form a sort of ‘climax’ for the piece. It was, therefore, impossible to give
this process such a strong orientation. I needed to disrupt the progression. I did
this, first of all, through local permutations: instead of presenting the distortions in
increasing order (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7), they are used in the order 1, 4, 5, 2, 6, 3, 7.
While this change modifies the local progression, it preserves the global orientation.
These local permutations introduce ‘accidents’—fractures—that make the listening
experience much more interesting and thwart an excessive sensation of
predictability. I have often used this technique that produces one of the major
articulations of musical discourse: a dialectic between predictability and
unpredictability. To avoid the effect of tension (which occurs quite clearly in
section X, as a result of the great enlargement of the range), the aggregates in
section VIII are alternatively enlarged or reduced through the addition or
subtraction of partials. The tape and the instruments realize these aggregates
simultaneously. Each one has a different duration, as a function of its contents (its
degree of distortion). There is also a sort of ‘spatial vibrato’ in the tape part—a
rapid forward-backward spatial movement. The frequency of this spatial vibrato is
also a function of the harmonic contents of the aggregates.14
The last aggregate of the very short section VIII ‘collapses’ brutally into a dense
storm of sounds, marking the start of section IX. This is a sort of ‘chaos’, it creates an
impression of disorder that was, nonetheless, carefully constructed. Beginning with
maximum instability, the textures gradually organize themselves. Progressively, they
sharpen their focus around a low E in the trombone and thus arrive at the opening of
section X, which we have already discussed. This ‘downpour’ of sounds is the result of
virtual ring modulations between the low sounds played by the strings—which
progressively stabilize around the trombone’s E. The modulations were calculated
232 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
with the strings’ spectra in mind: each harmonic of the first sound interacts with each
harmonic of the second. In other words, if sound A possesses five significant
harmonics (A, 2A, 3A, 4A and 5A) and sound B has three harmonics (B, 2B and 3B),
the resultant modulations will be A + B, A – B, A + 2B, A – 2B, A + 3B, A – 3B, then
2A + B, 2A – B, 2A + 2B, 2A – 2B, etc. This produces a huge mass of resultant notes
(Figure 34). All the combinations between the pairs of low sounds are exploited as
showers of notes and not as synchronized spectra—as were the harmonics of the
instrumental sounds in section III, which created the clouds of high percussive bell
sounds. The storm is organized according to global gestures (descending lines)
modified by controlled randomness algorithms (which the computer took care of).
The section is organized according to a multidimensional process that affects the
pitches (a strongly inharmonic situation at the beginning, progressively concentrating
on the spectrum of E), the densities (progressive decrease in density), the registers
(long descent towards the low E), and the durations (which lengthen). While this is a
very directional process, it is tempered by a dose of local-level unpredictability.
This concludes our exploration of Désintégrations. However, here are some brief
notes about the harmonic/timbral structure of the sections that were not analysed.

. Section II: Ring modulations of rich sounds (cf. section IX)—diffraction of

spectra into superposed, asynchronous trills.
. Section IV: Frequency shifting using curves, not lines (as in section III).
. Section V: Successive shifting of frequencies within a harmonic spectrum (the
only real harmonic spectrum of the piece) to obtain beating, then increasing
roughness.
. Section VI: Succession of frequency modulations.
. Section VII: Rapid permutation of seven harmonic distortion spectra. The
instrumental parts are approximated to the semitone because of the fast tempo.
. Section XI: Transposition from one octave to another of a harmonic spectrum;
each time the spectrum returns, the fundamental is pushed an octave lower: a
similar colour, but increasingly inharmonic. The final spectrum is based on the
theoretical fundamental G–3 and only utilizes one harmonic in 10. The timbral
effect is similar to the sound of a tam-tam.

Role of Computer-Aided Composition

The examples that we just looked at call for various types of calculations or
algorithms; sometimes these are very simple and sometimes they are more elaborate.
Obviously, a computer can help simplify tasks that are repetitive or calculations that
are difficult to do by hand (like exponential or logarithmic calculations). The idea of
composers getting help from a computer is not recent. Since the 1950s, calculating of
musical structures with a computer has been contemplated. The first ‘work’
calculated by a computer dates from 1956 (Suite Illiac, Lejaren Hiller, University of
Illinois, 1956). This work was followed by various composers’ development of what
 Contemporary Music Review 233

Figure 34 Example of ring modulation, section IX. Note: Modulation between sound
‘A’, with six harmonics, and sound ‘B’, with five harmonics. The resultant sounds are
classified by harmonic level. The differential tones that were too low have been
eliminated.

we now call ‘algorithmic music’ (it must be said that this tendency has not really left
us very many masterpieces). This approach often turned out to be naı̈ve and led to a
reduction in the complexity of the musical act, which was in effect a contradiction of
the initial postulates.
In hindsight, the principal critique of ‘algorithmic music’ is that musical
phenomena are not as easily reduced to a series of numbers (numerical data that
234 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
the computer can manipulate) as some have thought. Therefore, the goal of totally
controlling the form and content of a piece of music with computer algorithms is a
mirage. There is no automatic relationship between an algorithm and the perception
of the musical (or at least, the sonic) phenomenon generated by that algorithm.
Computer music research in the 1960s and 1970s moved on to concentrate more on
sound synthesis, a trend that was facilitated by the increasing power of computers.
However, this new focus on synthesis often led institutions and researchers to forget
the contributions computers could make to the work of composition proper. For
example, when I began working at IRCAM in 1981, I found a variety of synthesis
programs there, but not one program capable of assisting composers in their daily
work—not even the kind of elementary little programs that could perform small but
tedious tasks, like converting frequencies into musical notes and vice versa. During
that time, I decided that I had to develop some rudimentary programming skills,
which allowed me to write small personal programs for spectral calculations,
modulations and distortions, exploitation of analytical data, duration calculations,
etc.
The computer can help us express musical images. I see the act of composition as
a sort of mental projection: I imagine more or less complex musical situations in
which the details are not yet defined, then I try to realize them. To do this, one
must analyse and decompose the global nature of these musical situations. The
musical ideas must be reduced into components that are much simpler than the
original idea. Without adequate conceptual tools to realize this simplification and
reconstruction of the original musical image, the final result runs the risk of being
very far removed from the original conception. It is at this level that computers can
be useful. They allow us to keep the connecting thread between the original idea
and the final realization intact. They do this in two ways: first, the computer
accelerates the processes of decomposing and then recomposing the sonic image;
and, second, the computer can propose more refined solutions than those that we
might have intuitively chosen. This is, of course, due to the computer’s capacity for
performing complex calculations; however, it is also the result of a computer’s
ability rapidly to propose a multitude of different solutions—between which the
composer can choose. Whereas, when working intuitively (with pencil and paper),
fewer possibilities can be imagined at one time, which encourages the composer to
accept the first solution that is found—or to be content with an only approximate
realization.
The role we are defining for computer-aided composition is thus, in the end,
somewhat modest. We are not asking the computer to invent the global shape of a
piece, or to determine its large-scale form; we don’t even really expect it to create any
of the material. The computer’s role will be situated somewhere between these two
levels, as a mediator, or perhaps an intermediary. This is the perspective with which I
have created a certain number of computer tools for myself over the years. These
programs responded to precise compositional needs, and not to theoretical
considerations. My first programs worked on small personal computers; then I
 Contemporary Music Review 235
15
collaborated on the completion of the program Patchwork at IRCAM. Patchwork
offers the advantage of being an environment where composers can easily create their
own algorithms, produce representations of the obtained results in musical notation,
and play these results via a MIDI interface.16
The ideas behind this sort of computer-aided composition are very different from
those traditionally associated with ‘algorithmic music’. Algorithmic music’s ideas
were most likely derived from the movement’s heritage in serial writing:
permutations, combinatorial operations, etc. A mechanistic or ‘algorithmic’
approach in that sphere actually pre-dates the development of computers. Let’s take
some examples from Messiaen (in whose music one would probably not, at first
glance, expect to find a ‘scientific’ approach). We know that, at a certain point in
time, Messiaen was interested in serial techniques as practised by the ‘Darmstadt
school’. In addition to his piece Mode de valeurs et d’intensités, he developed his own,
rather particular, permutation systems. One of these systems involved establishing a
series of numbers that could be indexed—either a series of duration or of notes. With
a traditional series, the number of permutations increases exponentially as the
number of elements increases. Messiaen’s idea was to find a system that would create
a more limited number of permutations, following the model of his modes of limited
transposition (scales of pitches whose successive transposition ends up reproducing
the original scale). In this system he numbered the elements of a cell and used that
cell itself to determine the order of elements in its next permutation. For example, if
we take the series 5, 4, 1, 3, 2 to create the first permutation, we will take the 5th
element of our original cell, followed by the 4th element, the 3rd, etc. The first
permutation will thus be 2, 3, 5, 1, 4. This operation can then be repeated until the
initial series returns. The number of permutations with this system, instead of
exploding, will be exactly equal to the number of elements in the series. Other
composers were fascinated with magic squares, Pascal’s triangles, and of course who
can forget the Fibonacci series or the golden mean. Of course, it is very easy to
implement any of these techniques with a simple computer program and to use them
to derive a musical ‘translation’ of the numbers (this is especially easy in an
environment like Patchwork).
All of these models are enticing and some of them are very conceptually elegant,
but do they really guarantee any musical pertinence whatsoever? In certain cases,
combinatorial permutations can be an effective tool for use on details—like the local
permutations of a process. Or when the combinatorial operations take place within a
well-defined group of elements—where all the relationships can potentially make
sense—in this case, the permutations may have some value. For example, in a
reservoir of pitches belonging to a coherent spectrum—since all of the spectral
components maintain, by definition, a special relationship—permutation games can
have a certain interest or at least coherence. However, there is no general a priori
reason that one permutation—or any other mathematical or arithmetic manipula-
tion—should necessarily yield pertinent results. In music, everything depends on
relationships, context, resemblance, proximity between events and, of course, the,
236 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
more or less long-term memorability of events. The conscious creation of these
meaningful and memorable relationships is what creates a sensible musical discourse;
while successions created through automatic procedures may appear rigorous on
paper, their perceptual reality is often completely aleatoric.
Another critique that can be made of this mechanistic approach is that objects
are often considered from a linear point of view. This creates perceptual
absurdities, especially in the realm of durations. Let’s examine the poorly named
‘chromatic series of rhythms’. These sequences of rhythmic values actually form
arithmetic progressions. By contrast, the ‘chromatic’ pitch scale is built upon a
geometric progression of frequencies: noten+1=noten 6 21/12. In a geometric
progression, the ratio between two successive elements is constant; in an arithmetic
progression, this ratio increases or decreases constantly. Take, for example, this
typical ‘chromatic’ series of durations: 32nd-note, 16th-note, dotted 16th-note . . .
half-note, half-note + one 32nd-note, etc. The relationship (temporal ratio) of
16th-note to 32nd-note is 2:1; the relationship of dotted 16th-note to 16th-note is
3:2, etc. There is no real problem at this point: the ratios are different, but this
difference between the ratios and the difference between the durations are, at least
in principle, audible. But when we arrive at half-note + one 32nd-note to half-note,
the relationship becomes 17:16, which is very close to 1. In this case, the difference
between durations is no longer perceptible unless there is a clear pulse. If there is a
regular audible pulsation, these rhythms will cause a progression of delays relative
to that pulse; and these offsets are easily audible because they again fall within the
domain of perceptible differences—delay of one 32nd-note versus delay of two
32nd-notes, etc.).
To organize a truly coherent scale of durations, the focus must be on relationships:
i.e. one would have to create a progression of relationships between the elements—
and not a progression of absolute durations of the elements. The communal error of
organizing durations in a linear fashion is caused by traditional notation’s masking of
the true nature of musical materials. On scores, composers write C, C#, D, etc., which
seems to be a linear progression (a half-step is added each time); but the note names
mask the true nature of pitch, which (as we saw earlier) is a geometric series of
frequencies. Similarly, we write a scale of dynamics ppp, pp . . . ff, fff; however, this
simple progression also hides the fact that intensities too follow a logarithmic scale
(the physical strength of sound must increase tenfold to double its perceived
intensity). Creating a non-linear series of durations requires the use of curves; this is
more difficult than simply aligning or permuting rhythmic symbols and for that
reason we might feel justified in using the computer to realize these series.
On the other hand, computers can also realize systems of permutations and
combinations extremely easily. The large tables of permutations, inversions,
retrogrades, retrograde inversions, transpositions, etc. that generations of composers
have sweated over can be completed in mere fractions of a second by a computer
program. This might even prompt us to wonder whether, if we had had computers
earlier, would we not have renounced all of these ideas—which seem so simple and
 Contemporary Music Review 237
(in the end) stripped of all their attractiveness, once they are reduced to mere
algorithms?
These observations are troubling because, if the computer can help with our
calculations, it can also reveal to us that what we are doing is truly simple and that it
may not be worth doing in the first place. I have had that experience personally:
certain techniques that seemed complex, and which I had judged interesting precisely
because of their complexity, turned out, after 5 or 10 years of practical experience and
after implementing them on the computer, to be ridiculously simple. Above, I
showed the complex frequency modulation chords from the opening of Gondwana: at
the time I was composing this piece, this technique seemed very new (I believe it in
fact was new) and complex—the manual calculations to realize them were, if not
complex, at least long and fastidious. Once it became easy to create frequency
modulation spectra, either by programming them on synthesizers or by calculating
their contents with a computer, they lost some of their earlier magic: they became
well-known sonorities, and the great simplicity of the procedure that generates them
was revealed.
All the same, this development allowed me to concentrate on higher-level work—
on the musical discourse itself. Computers free me from all sorts of ‘accounting’
issues and allow me to focus my creative effort on what is really important. What
might previously have seemed like the ultimate goal of the work is no longer any
more than a point of departure. This ease with which the computer generates
material can give composers much more freedom to imagine, to let their intuitive
ideas fully ripen into the imagined musical realization. Paradoxically, algorithms can
liberate our intuitions.

Territoires de l’oubli (1978)

Let’s go back a few years earlier to Territoires de l’oubli, a long piece for solo piano. At
the time of its composition, I was not yet using most of the techniques we’ve
discussed—frequency calculations, rhythmic calculations and computer-based
techniques. Nevertheless, in this piece there are already some tentative approaches
to these techniques. Of course, there is one big problem in writing this way for the
piano: equal temperament, which forces us to accept a cruder approximation of
spectral frequencies.
A second difficulty was my style of writing which, at the time I was composing
Territoires de l’oubli, functioned mostly through sonic masses, subtle movements,
imperceptible progressions, evolutions of timbres, interlocking textures, etc. All of
these are rather easy to create with an orchestra, or even with smaller chamber
ensembles. However, the percussive, non-sustained sound of the piano made the
construction of these types of structures difficult. Strong constraints, nevertheless,
can force you to discover creative solutions; I tried, therefore, to make use of these
constraints. One of my responses to this problem was to make full use of the piano’s
sustain pedal: it is completely depressed from the beginning to the end of the piece.
238 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
Thus, the notes that are struck will always resonate until their natural extinction. In
contrast to the currently widespread attitude in contemporary piano literature, my
original idea was not to treat the piano as a percussion instrument, but to treat it as
an instrument of resonance. Obviously, you cannot avoid hearing the attacks, the
percussion of the hammers, but the main focus here is the progressive transformation
of the global resonance of the piano. Above all else, the piece was written to create
and modify these resonances, and not to create percussive or rhythmic effects. As a
result, the writing is somewhat supple. Since the resonance of the piano is not entirely
predictable—it depends on many factors, including the room in which it is played—a
certain rhythmic flexibility has been built in: the performer can interpret the length of
the fermatas, and can repeat certain fragments, with the goal of letting the resonances
bloom or evaporate.
Since processes, global transformations of texture from one state to another,
underlie Territoires, the pianist must perform the very delicate task of creating these
progressive changes. It is not sufficient for the pianist to concentrate on any single
instant. The pianist must maintain the progressive evolution of a musical passage in
his memory: understanding the nature of the transformation and the objective
towards which it is aimed, in order to be able to guide these processes—which are
sometimes quite long (they can last four to five pages)—in a way that will clearly
recreate them for the listener. Examples of these processes are very gradual
accelerations or decelerations. The pianist must carefully control the slowing or
acceleration, so as not to risk arriving at the goal tempo prematurely, which would
create an undesired moment of tempo stasis. The same kind of planning ahead is, of
course, equally important for controlling dynamics. The complexity of the piano
writing grows greater when the piece arrives at junctures with superposed processes:
for example, one process is often abating while the next one is beginning to establish
itself. Another type of junction is created when musical material has transformed in
such a way that it becomes unrecognizable; then, from this resulting material, this
sort of residue, a new process begins, and so on. Processes overlap incessantly in this
piece, which makes it difficult to divide it into clear sections. In the score, rehearsal
letters mostly serve as reference points for the performer or for the analyst; however,
they do not necessarily correspond to marked caesuras for the listener.

Echoes
The first example17 that we will examine (page 7 of the score; Figure 35), uses echoes
as its model; however, this echo is a little unusual because it is combined with a
technique of harmonic resonance. The (rather simple) point of departure consists of
two intertwined melodies.
A bit later in this process, when the general dynamic level augments slightly, the
lower melody needs to be played slightly less loudly than the upper melody: this
allows the two melodic streams to be distinguished from each other. At the
beginning, the melodic fragments use very few notes and are confined to a restricted
 Contemporary Music Review 239

Figure 35 Territoires de l’oubli, page 7.

range. Progressively, this range enlarges, the number of notes increases, and the
contours become more complicated. Let’s imagine building a melody with neumes. A
neume is a very simple, very clearly shaped contour. Gregorian neumes consist of
contours using two, three or four notes. However, one can invent slightly more
elaborate neumes, which can be used as the elementary units of melodic fragments.
These melodic fragments will become increasingly complex if we place additional
neumes as substitutes for some of the notes within the neumes already used. Today,
we would describe the resulting melodies as ‘fractal’.
The two melodic streams created this way are then reflected in echoes. The model
for this process was more the electronic echo chamber than the natural phenomenon
of echo. Moreover, the composing of this sort of process allows some liberties to be
taken. Rhythmic liberties: instead of being regular, the repetitions undergo
progressive deceleration. Modification of timbre: in natural echo and analogue
electronic echoes (like the ones in use at the time this piece was composed), the
repetitions are filtered, causing the upper harmonics to disappear progressively. In
this case, however, I use my compositional liberty to produce the inverse effect: more
and more harmonics appear over the course of the repetitions. To avoid leaving the
audible domain (and the keyboard), the highest of these harmonics are transposed
down one or more octaves; thus an echo—through this process—can sometimes
appear in a lower register than the original note (Figure 36).
To implement this principle, I built a sort of grid where melodies appeared with
their echoes—according to the system of rhythmic slowing. Each echo has more and
more harmonics, transposed if necessary. The mass of pitches I ended up with,
obviously, was too large to be playable on the piano. Therefore, I intuitively selected
the elements that seemed most interesting to me, and that created musical structures
that were playable.
240 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

Figure 36 Territoires de l’oubli, page 9.

Towards the end of this passage, a polarization arises for quite a while around the
note C; it then dies away very gradually creating confusion between the echoes and
the melodies from which they originate (page 11, 2nd system). The resulting mixture
of melodies and echoes transforms, ‘congeals’, into a sort of rhythmic swaying (page
12). The idea behind this whole section can be seen as a progressive proliferation of
pitches generated through the accumulation of echoes, leading to a point where the
original structures become unrecognizable. After only a few pages, the music seems a
bit anarchic, a sort of ‘organized chaos’. Inside this chaotic system appear rhythmic
polarizations and resonant frequencies, such as the C mentioned above (these louder
resonant modes in the midst of saturated sonic spaces are a real acoustic
phenomenon that is easily perceived in concert halls, for example). The music
finishes by contracting back on itself, around the poles of frequential and temporal
attraction—a bit like a black hole, where matter folds back on itself. At the end of this
process of proliferation then coagulation, the music settles on semi-repetitive
formulas, with the left hand and right hand moving independently. This type of
procedure can be found again and again throughout the whole piece: there is a
constant oscillation between semi-regular pulsations and rhythmic configurations
that appear very ‘chaotic’.

The Natural Resonance of the Piano

At letter B, page 4, we find another one of these moments of semi-regular pulsation—
created by a repetitive formula in the extremely low register of the piano (Figure 37).
When approximated to the semitone, the spectrum of three of the low sounds that
make up this formula have a common spectral component, a G3 (5th harmonic of
Eb1, 6th harmonic of C1, 7th harmonic of A0). Due to the repetitions of these pitches,
the G3 emerges naturally, without actually being played. If the piano is resonant
enough, this phenomenon will start to emerge on the top of page 5 (Figure 38).
At the end of the first system on page 5, the G is actually played, but the performer
must make sure that the played note emerges from the resonance of the G harmonic.
 Contemporary Music Review 241

Figure 37 Page 4, letter B.

Figure 38 Page 5; the appearance of G3.

The letter ‘R’, used as a dynamic, signifies ‘do not play louder than the resonance’;
this allows the resonance of the note to be sustained, without hearing the note struck.
The G then starts to crescendo and progressively emerges.
A similar phenomenon is produced on page 17, where successively C#4, G3, then
D5 emerge softly from the resonance of a low ostinato and then congeal in a repeated
chord. Before arriving at letter E, the ad libitum repetition of the chord G–C#–D
allows the sonority to ‘deflate’—arriving at ppp. Therefore, letter E does not so much
mark a new section as it does a point of inflection (the moment where the curve
changes direction, from increasing to decreasing or the inverse). The bass sounds
242 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

Figure 39 Section E: generator sounds, ‘additional’ sounds, and ‘differential’ sounds.

Figure 40 Page 19, 1st system.

Figure 41 Page 34.

 Contemporary Music Review 243

Figure 42 Mozart: Sonata in C minor. Note: Transformations of the arpeggio object.

For the last transformation (outlined by a box), the harmonic field changes during the
execution of the object.

(vestiges of page 16) are held over and then disappear progressively. The effect is as if
some contrabasses of the orchestra were performing a gradual diminuendo to silence.
Another example that makes use of the piano’s natural resonance occurs at the end
of the piece, where the three sounds F1, D#4 and C#7 are repeated for quite a while.
The harmonics of F1 are progressively amplified—affecting, among others, the 7th
harmonic (a slightly lowered D#4). This creates a beating between the overtone of
244 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
F—the lowered D#—and the equal-tempered D# played directly by the pianist. This
beating causes the D# to start vibrating in a very special way, which colours the entire
end of the piece.

Ring Modulation
Let’s return to section E. It starts on the chord G–C#–D. These three pitches are used
as sound generators for a ring modulation. The intervals contained within this chord
have certain specific characteristics. The interval C#–D is ‘dissonant’, in the
traditional sense, but it is softened by the G: the perfect fifth G–D has a consonant
harmonic nature, while the interval G–C# is somewhere between dissonance and
consonance.18
We saw above how to calculate the ring modulation of two sounds, along with
their harmonics. Here, I created imaginary modulations between all three sounds. If
we designate their frequencies with the letters a, b and c, we will calculate the
interactions between a and b, between b and c, between a and c, sometimes between
a, b and c, and between the harmonics of these sounds (up to the 5th harmonic). The
obtained result constitutes a vast table of frequencies in which we can trace a kind of
path, by first concentrating on the simplest combinations (between a, b and c), then
by introducing the second harmonics, that is 2a, 2b, 2c, then the third 3a, 3b, 3c, etc.
By exploring more and more harmonics and their combinations, we move away, little
by little, from the initial anchoring to G, C#, D—and this introduces considerable
changes in the musical flow (see Figure 39).
The chord written in small notes on the 4th beat of Figure 40 contains three
‘additional’ sounds (plus some harmonic and inharmonic partials). The dynamic
marking 4R indicates that the pianist must play slightly louder than the current level
of resonances. The lower chord on the 8th beat helps make the ‘differential’ sounds
audible.
At the end of the section, the generator chord progressively disappears. The whole
reservoir of possible notes has already been used and now a ‘filtering’ effect appears:
the lowest pitches are eliminated. The cut-off frequency of the ‘filter’ slowly rises,
until the sonic texture is reduced to a high trill C7–Db7.
Another example of virtual ring modulation occurs at the end of the piece. At letter
G (page 30), several different musics are superimposed. The first element, low
resonances, a reminder of the music that preceded it (a sort of ‘stormy’ music, made
with percussive gestures and trills in the low register of the piano), will be heard until
the end of the piece. However, it will grow gradually simpler as it condenses onto a
single frequency (F1). The second element, a sequence of sounds in the middle
register centred around C#4 (this C# is also inherited from the previous section),
smoothly changes its polarity: D# is substituted for the C# as a pole of attraction and
ends up attracting all of the nearby sounds to itself. The third element: a progression
of ascending movements that are progressively drawn towards C#7. These three
sounds (F1, D#4, C#7) then start to interact, in the same way I described above (see
 Contemporary Music Review 245
Figure 41). However, the final result is quite different, because these three pitches are,
in fact, part of the same harmonic spectrum—or at as close as is possible with equal-
tempered notes. The D#4 is very close to the 7th harmonic of F1 (we saw before that
this creates beating with the exact—real—harmonic of F); the C#7 is the 7th
harmonic of D#4, or if you prefer, the 49th harmonic of F119 The resultant sounds of
a ring modulation whose inputs are part of the same harmonic spectrum will
themselves be part of this harmonic spectrum. The pitches obtained in this section
are, therefore, close to the harmonic spectrum of F. The modulation enriches the
global timbre but does not produce the ‘anarchic’ effect of proliferation there was in
section E.
Conclusion (provisional): the piano is, in principle, a ‘tempered’ instrument; but
as we have seen its resonances are not tempered. It is, therefore, possible to make the
piano sound very different: by playing with its resonances, it is possible to make the
listener almost forget that the sounds that he is hearing are all equally tempered. That
was one of the goals of Territoires de l’oubli, but this type of piano writing can also be
found in several of my later piano pieces. In these works, the note (in this case,
meaning the piano’s attack) has very little importance. The point of departure is
something else, and the sounds that listeners perceive are also something else:
textures, objects, complex aggregates. . . Let’s explore these different notions a bit
further.

Musical Atoms
The organization of musical discourse, traditionally, has used notes as the point of
departure. These notes are assembled either horizontally into melodic lines or
vertically into chords; melodic lines and chords are then superposed to create
polyphony or an accompanied melody. This traditional conception (still very much
present in academic teaching) is, in fact, very limited. Music can be conceived in
categories that are far vaster; moreover, this new sort of conception is not in
conflict with the traditional approach, but rather incorporates it. Let’s return to the
notion of a ‘note’: notes are normally considered the smallest element of musical
discourse, the musical ‘atom’. In the etymological sense, ‘atom’ means ‘indivisible
element’—an object that one cannot divide into smaller elements. Moreover, the
very notion of a note is actually quite ambiguous: the term is simultaneously used
to refer to a sonic event (a ‘musical sound’) and a symbolic object (the ‘note’ that
appears in the score).
However, the perceptual atom is only rarely the musical note. Perception is
interested in much larger objects, in structured ensembles of sounds (e.g. a melodic
sequence of notes). Additionally, we cannot say that the musical note (seen as a
sound) is indivisible; just as, since Niels Bohr, the atom is also no longer the atom,
since it can be broken down into smaller particles. If the atom can be compared to a
miniature solar system, similarly, a musical sound is a complex world into which we
can enter and within which we can explore.
246 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
We saw that spectral analysis allowed us to dissociate complex sounds into their
elementary components—with different frequencies, amplitudes and phases. Each
sound has a specific dynamic evolution along with attack and extinction transients;
and, in fact, each of the sound’s components has its own, independent dynamic
evolution. This huge internal richness is what makes certain sounds particularly
interesting to human perception. Thus, we arrive at a two-part pronouncement. First,
the musical note (seen as a sound) can, in fact, be broken down into very much
smaller elements. Second, more often than not, the note is not in and of itself an
object of perception: it is usually only one element within of a much larger perceptual
group. Therefore, a note is just one level within a hierarchy of musical (perceptual)
structures.

Musical Objects
Many themes in music from the ‘classical’ period are built on very simple structures
like scales or arpeggios. That a theme includes, for example, the sequence C, Eb, G is
not really important. Even the fact that this sequence could help establish the key of C
minor is not essential. What is really important is for the listener to be able to
recognize this ‘arpeggio’ object itself: once learned, the sequence C, Eb, G will become
available for transformation later in the piece (e.g. through transpositions and
modulations to G, B, D or even Bb, E, G, Db, etc.). The harmonic colours and the
intervals will change, but all of these objects share a strong common identity. For
perception, what matters is the similarity of dynamic movement in ascending
arpeggios (Figure 42).
In computational language, we would say that each of these ‘arpeggio’ objects is an
‘instantiation’ of the same class, ‘arpeggio’. Each individual—each object—can still
be unique, through the interplay of parameters defined for the given class. This
similarity of structure can work to our advantage when employing a computer-
assisted composition program such as Patchwork.20
This notion of object is quite unlike the traditional notion of thematic
development; it is closer to the leitmotif idea, though it is different from that as
well. Musical objects as I’m defining them are extremely supple; they can be modified,
even to the point of progressively changing their identity (by subjecting them to
processes of transformation). The original form of the object, after successive
metamorphoses, can be forgotten—this is in complete contrast to the Wagnerian
leitmotif, whose role is of course to be recognized. Nevertheless, the idea of a class of
objects, from which other objects are derived, is the same in both cases. Because of its
role as a beacon for the listener, the leitmotif most often does not participate in the
development of forms and textures: it remains isolated in the midst of the discourse.
This is not exactly the kind of function I’m trying to endow objects with. Debussy
might provide a better illustration. While his music is not dominated by the idea of
thematic development, you never lose your footing when listening, perception is
never disoriented, and you always find points where your memory can anchor itself.
 Contemporary Music Review 247
Debussy uses cells, motions and contours that allow for the identification of
similarities between objects. This makes it very difficult to analyse his music with
classical techniques: something else is going on.
In computer science terminology an object contains both data and the means
(‘methods’) for the exploitation of the data. The data for an arpeggio-object are a
harmonic field and some parameters. The method employed is the ‘arpeggio’
method, which consists of separating out certain sounds from the harmonic field, as a
function of certain parameters: speed of the arpeggio, range, size of steps, number of
steps, direction (ascending or descending), etc.
From the object class ‘arpeggio’, which we have just defined, we can derive
subclasses, another notion commonly used in both computer science and music
(whether consciously or unconsciously). Thus, one subclass of an arpeggio could be a
broken arpeggio: instead of a unidirectional motion, there will be a zigzag path. An
ordinary arpeggio and a broken arpeggio have different contours, yet they are clearly
related. The data and the methods of exploitation can be varied infinitely; however,
there will always be some sort of (more or less loose) relationship links, and these
links will at least be visible from one step to the next, though after a certain number
of operations, it may very well become quite difficult to recognize the original object.
With these ideas in mind, we might take a fresh look at the music of the past.
Instead of holding on only to traditional criteria (thematic development, formal
models, tonal progressions. . .), we could explore structural and statistical
phenomena, as well as everything else that concerns the actual perception we have
of a piece, rather than focusing exclusively on its theoretical conception. To the idea
of a musical object, we could add other notions, such as texture. Rather than speaking
of counterpoint, polyphony, accompanied melody, etc., we could simply categorize
all of these as different types of texture. For example, seen this way, four-voice
counterpoint, which for a long time seemed to be the most perfect and advanced
form, is but one particular, limited texture—a specific configuration of textural
organization amongst an infinity of others. Though this perhaps pushes the point a
bit far, we could say that four-part counterpoint is simply a subgroup of much vaster
structures, such as Ligeti’s micro-polyphony . . .
Another perspective is that of the Norwegian composer Lasse Thoresen, who
developed a theory of textures, layers and strata in music. According to Thoresen,
within musical textures, certain layers are more visible (audible) than others.
However, the importance given to the various layers varies for each listener. For
example, classically trained musicians generally have the impression that popular
rock music sounds ‘impoverished’ (without depth). Our perception of the
foreground, the most apparent layer, is what ties in with our musical education
and thus it is often what we attend to: classically trained musicians seek harmonic
progressions, melodic development, etc.—all things that will not be found in popular
music. For rock musicians, by contrast, the most important layers are the rhythmic
and timbral layers—harmony and melody are mere ornaments in the background.
Everything is changed if we view things from this angle.
248 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
In one way or another, this type of analysis totally ‘short circuits’ traditional
notions of thematic development and formal models. If we now add in the idea of
process—transformation from one texture to another or generation of objects whose
characteristics vary progressively—we obtain some absolutely fascinating results.21 A
complex musical image—composed of textures and objects—comes to life, and then,
by way of transformations affecting its components, evolves towards another quite
different image (into which the various processes at work will progressively transform
it). Numerous recent compositions have employed this type of organization:
processes and metamorphoses alter the musical objects, generating intermediate
situations with new, even unheard of characters—while also conferring a tension
(and a powerful sense of directionality) to the musical discourse through the
instability created by these transformations.

Allégories (1990)
Allégories is written for six instruments: flute, clarinet, violin, cello, horn and
percussion. It also requires a real-time electronic performance apparatus consisting of
a Macintosh computer, a MIDI keyboard (that does not, itself, make any sound, but
sends MIDI signals), and a Yamaha TX-816 synthesizer. The TX-816 includes eight
modules (each of which has the power of a DX-7 synthesizer), which can produce a
total of 8 times 16 polyphonic voices. These 128 voices allow me to create a sort of
real-time additive synthesis. Since the electronic textures in the piece are too complex
to be played directly by one keyboard player, the computer controls the synthesis
modules using the commands sent by the MIDI keyboard as cues. The computer uses
the program MAX (the Macintosh version of which was still under development at
IRCAM when this piece was composed).
At the time I composed Désintégrations (1983) for orchestra, this type of system
did not exist, and real-time realization was still very difficult. This is why composers
continued to rely on pre-recorded tapes to play back their electronic sounds.
However, these tapes created a major problem: synchronizing the tape and the
instrumental ensemble. In Désintégrations the conductor is forced to use an earpiece
through which he hears ‘clicks’ corresponding to the beats in the score. The tape has
four tracks, one of which is reserved for these ‘clicks’—which faithfully follow the
changes of tempo and meter.22 Obviously, the ‘click track’ technique imprisons the
conductor: any rubato whatsoever becomes impossible. This is a difficult constraint
for the conductor, but also for the composer, who can no longer count on the
suppleness of interpretation to repair potential holes in the writing. In a sense, the
interpretation is fully planned in advance and fixed—at least as far as durations are
concerned. In certain cases, this can be a good thing, because potential
misinterpretations are avoided; but sometimes a good interpretation can transfigure
a piece and reveal within it aspects that the composer himself had not imagined, and
this potential is eliminated by the ‘click-track’. This is why real-time electronics are
 Contemporary Music Review 249
desirable, at least in terms of allowing a much more supple synchronization with
instruments and conductors.
The electronic techniques used in Allégories are relatively modest; yet it still
attempts to replicate the idea behind Désintégrations, where the electronic sounds
enrich and complete the instrumental discourse. However, there is one major
difference: in Allégories, the electronic sounds follow the conductor, and not the
other way around. The electronic part is essentially decomposed into small events
(objects or textural elements), which are triggered at the right moment by an
instrumentalist playing on a MIDI keyboard. The notes played by the
instrumentalist have nothing to do with the sounds one hears, they are simply
codes interpreted by the computer—each one corresponding to musical events,
which are sometimes already stored in the program and sometimes generated on-
the-fly, during the performance.

Additive Synthesis
We saw earlier that all musical sounds are divisible into elementary sonic
components. Inversely, a sound can be reconstructed from these elementary
components. The reason that additive synthesis is so attractive to me resides in the
ease with which the composer can control (‘compose’) each detail of the sound.
Almost the entire tape of Désintégrations was created in this way. Certain of the
electronic sounds evoke percussion, piano, trombone or cello; however, in reality,
they are totally artificial sounds obtained through analysing instrumental spectra.
These spectra are then manipulated, re-interpreted and deformed by the computer
before being used as the basis for synthesizing these completely artificial sounds. With
this technique, sounds that evoke instruments can be ‘re-composed’ just as easily as
hybrid sounds (sonic ‘monsters’).
In a certain way, this mode of synthesis is very primitive—and, in any case, it is
very laborious. Its roots date back to Stockhausen’s first experiments, in which he
sought to construct sounds from sinusoidal generators. The technology available at
that time was certainly awkward: the generators were large boxes that had to be tuned
by hand, then recorded and mixed over and over again (since each generator was
monophonic). This all became much easier with computers. Nevertheless, creating
sounds with additive synthesis remains complex and difficult. For example, in
Désintégrations to create an interesting sound it was often necessary to keep track of
10–30 components per sound, with 10–15 separate parameters for each component:
pitch, dynamic, duration, time of attack, dynamic envelopes, spatialization envelope,
vibrato—with its different parameters (envelope, frequency, amplitude), spatializa-
tion, etc. There were often several hundred parameters for a single sound.
Programming these parameters manually was, of course, impossible. Therefore, I
needed to write a program that could calculate all of the necessary parameters as a
function of global musical data. For example, I needed to be able to specify to the
computer that an oboe spectrum would be used, that the global duration would be x
250 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
seconds, that the attacks would not be simultaneous (but rather staggered with an
acceleration effect), that the vibrato would have a certain frequency (speed) for the
lowest component and another for the highest component, etc. The program then
performed all of the necessary intermediate calculations, carried out any interpola-
tions needed, and supplied the list of parameters required for synthesis. Clearly this
work remained rather cumbersome, even with computer assistance; however, even
now additive synthesis still seems the appropriate procedure if you want to control
the finest details of the sound.
The Yamaha DX and TX synthesizers function on the principle of frequency
modulation, which allows the construction of rich sounds with relatively few
parameters. Nevertheless, the detailed make-up of these sounds is often beyond the
programmer’s control. In Allégories, I actually use the potential of frequency
modulation synthesis very little: only for some sounds, which are played at the
beginning of the piece. All of the other electronic sonorities in the piece are created
through additive synthesis: the synthesizer emits only sinusoidal tones, whose
amplitude envelopes (percussive sounds, very soft attacks, shorter or longer
resonances) and aspect (various vibratos or phase differences) are varied.

Some Examples of How Electronic Sounds Are Used

The electronic sound that opens the piece is an exception to this rule: it is a very
complex sound that sounds like coloured noise and is produced through frequency
modulation. Nevertheless, as long as we know the carriers used and the ratio of
modulation (modulator/carrier), we can analyse its components.
The synthesizer plays four superimposed spectra (see Figure 43). The resultant
sound is in the ‘noise’ family and slightly resembles a tam-tam: tam-tam resonance
is also a sort of coloured noise—a complex agglomeration of frequencies that are
very close to one another. These ‘coloured noise’ sounds differ from ‘white noise’
in that particular colours (frequency bands) and registers (low, high) are audible
within the ‘noise’. As we saw above, the problem that tam-tams—and in general, all
percussion instruments—pose is that there is no way to know exactly how the
instruments that will be used in a given performance will sound. In other words, in
concert situations, the colour of the tam-tam (or other percussion instruments) is
almost never exactly what the composer had in mind. If a musical effect, like
mixing the sounds into an instrumental aggregate (remember the cymbal in section
I of Désintégrations), depends on a precise colour, this can be a real problem. For
this opening to Allégories, my solution was to mix a real tam-tam (with the natural
life of its rich resonance) with synthetic frequencies that precisely supply the
required harmonic/timbral colour. Thus, one possible role for electronics is to
specify or enrich the frequency-content of acoustic sounds. Furthermore, certain
components of frequency modulation sounds were used in writing the instrumental
parts—which enhances the fusion between the synthesizer and the instruments
(Figures 44 and 45).
 Contemporary Music Review 251

Figure 43 Frequency modulation, beginning of Allégories.

252 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
Numerous electronic sounds in Allégories are similar to the resonances of metallic
percussion instruments. This type of very dense, complex aggregate enhances fusion;
i.e. it reinforces the perception of an aggregate as a timbre more than a harmony.
Nevertheless, the percept of such rich and complex spectra remains ambiguous
(Figures 46 and 47a, b, c).
Clouds of high sounds are another type of sound frequently heard in the piece (e.g.
in sections A and O)—or clouds of low sounds in section I. These clouds are
composed of notes selected semi-randomly from a spectral reservoir. The
synchronization of the instruments to these clouds is, thus, only approximate—a
synchronized beginning is all that matters in this context (Figure 48).
The pitches in these clouds come from the upper portion of a distorted harmonic
spectrum. The precise sequence shown in Figure 48 does not occur in the score; it is
one among thousands of possible combinations, only a few of which were actually
used in the piece.
The synthesized sounds are sometimes in a closer relationship with the
instrumental sounds; in several sections of the score (e.g. sections C, L, M and
N), they create echoes or pre-echoes of instrumental sounds. At other times, they
add synthesized formants to the notes played by the instruments (e.g. the end of
section N). Often, the attacks of the partials are desynchronized so as to produce a

Figure 44 Electronic frequency components doubling the instruments. Note: The

sound of the synthesizer is shown with an approximation to the nearest eighth of a tone.
The instruments are approximated to the nearest quarter-tone. The slight difference in
frequency between the instruments and the electronics does not diminish the fusion
(since it is smaller than the interval of the critical band).
 Contemporary Music Review 253

Figure 45 Allégories: beginning of section A.

Figure 46 Percussive aggregates, section H (bars 2 and 12, respectively). Note: The
chords are represented in the form of arpeggios to facilitate their reading.

sort of sweep through the spectrum. All of these synthetic sounds are based on
spectral analyses of the instruments that they complement. However, they are never
used to replace an acoustic instrument; rather they enrich or diffract the
instrument’s sound.
254 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

Musical Construction of Allégories

Let’s return to the idea of musical objects. The analysis I’m presenting now is an a
posteriori look at the piece. I do not pretend to have composed the piece in this way—
in any case, not consciously. However, the successive transformations of the initial
 Contemporary Music Review 255

Figure 47 (a) Section H, bars 1–13. (b) Section H, bars 1–13 (continued). (c) Section
H, bars 1–13 (continued).

Figure 48 Semi-random clouds of high sounds.

object that I will describe are certainly present in the music, even if they do not result
from a deliberate pre-compositional plan.
The initial object is simple, almost banal, but choosing it was not so simple. I
needed a very special, malleable object: one that was susceptible to metamorphosis,
but also one that was sufficiently distinctive that it could be easily recognized—yet
not so distinctive that it could not undergo extensive transformations. It is helpful if
such an object is simple and striking, but it is not necessary—on the contrary—that it
be complex or even very interesting. A perfect example is the initial cell of
256 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony: a not very sophisticated melodic fragment. However,
this simple idea allows for many subsequent transformations. Without wanting to
inflate the analogy or compare my piece to Beethoven’s, this is a bit like what happens
here.
Figure 49a shows a schematic representation of the initial object. It consists of what
Messiaen calls a ‘rocket group’: rapid ascending lines of several instruments
superimposed, which reaches a small accent, prolonged by a trilled resonance. Over
the course of the piece, a certain number of ‘subclasses’ of this group are created,
which in turn are used to form new ‘subclasses’. For example, at the very beginning,

Figure 49 (a) Schematic representation of the initial object. (b) Object preceded by an
anacrusis – a horn call. (c) The trilled resonances dissolve into semi-random clouds of
sounds.
 Contemporary Music Review 257

Figure 50 (a) Section A, bars 37–42. (b) Section A, bars 37–42 (continued).

the object is preceded by an anacrusis—a horn call (see Figure 45). This ‘subclass’
returns again in section G (Figure 49b). Later in section A, the trilled resonance
(actually transformed into tremolos) dissolves into clouds of sounds—the ones we
spoke of just a couple of pages ago (Figure 49c, Figure 50a and Figure 50b).
258 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
Or, on other occasions, that resonance shatters into a melodic entanglement of
intertwined spirals (Figure 51). Another frequently used subclass is a ‘rocket group’
that reaches a resonant chord (a sort of amplification of the little initial accent; Figure
51b).
These derived forms are transformed in turn; allowing the creation of the table
shown in Figure 52. With this diagram, it is easy to follow the successive
metamorphoses of the object. For example, the simplification to ‘rocket group’ +
percussive chord (a), then the simplification of the ‘rocket group’ to groups of
grace notes as an anacrusis to the chord (a, b, o). At letter c, only the chord itself
remains, sometimes followed by a small ornamental group. The percussive attack
then progressively weakens, leaving objects with a soft attack (crescendo–
decrescendo) and long resonance (c, h). Then the different components of the
chord desynchronize (h)—at this point, the ambitus of the objects has also become
very large.
The ‘cloud’ of sounds, which at the outset is only a short resonance of trills,
achieves autonomy at letter d, becoming a fully fledged musical structure. While
section d is very short, its contents are developed later at letter l (section d can thus be
considered as a sort of pre-echo of section l). Sometimes, the ‘cloud’ superimposes
itself upon the interlocking texture of h. This occurs in section m, which itself is pre-
figured by another pre-echo in section e. Similarly, the form ‘o’ (intertwined
descending spirals) comes from the final phase of an object found in a. At the centre
of the piece, there are some inverted forms. The structure of these objects was
reversed as in a mirror (in the previous schema this sort of derivation is indicated by
dotted arrows). However, the harmonic contents do not undergo this mirror-

Figure 51 (a) The resonance shatters into a melodic entanglement of intertwined

spirals. (b) A ‘rocket group’ reaches a resonant chord.
 Contemporary Music Review 259

Figure 52 Various transformations of the initial object. Note: The small letters
correspond to the sections of the piece in which one can hear these various forms.

symmetrical inversion, which, in a spectral context, would not make sense—or

would, at least, be very arbitrary.
In fact, the harmonic contents change continuously. Allégories attempts to create
a formal discourse linked to functional development of the harmony. The harmonic
successions are integral to the form of the piece and not simply a ‘colouration of
time’. As such, the harmonies are quite different from Messiaen’s conception—in
which harmonies ‘colour’ the durations. For me, harmonic progressions are equally
260 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)
important as the formal and dynamic structure of gestures and durations; poorly
chosen harmonies or durations can contradict and destroy the musical discourse
that one hoped to create. Herein lies one of my primary compositional concerns:
finding the harmonic progression that best represents the musical image that I have
in mind. This is by no means an obvious task—especially since it is not only the
intrinsic colour of the object that counts, but also its relation to the larger context.
Moreover, these harmonic successions are often realized by complex aggregates,
possessing a large number of finely adjusted components. Organizing the harmonic
evolution of such aggregates is not easy; there are no formulas or algorithms that
can juggle all the aspects, and, in the end, the best judges are still intuition and
experimentation.
If we look again at the global evolution of the piece, we can see that an interplay of
relationships is created. They can be schematized as shown in Figure 53.
Once again, this schema corresponds to the final state of the piece, and not to a
completely pre-established plan. My initial plan, for example, contained five parts;
however, in the end only four remained. What is now section l, which is comprised
of many ‘clouds’ of sounds, was initially supposed to occur just after section c.
However, it seemed to me that section l was too elaborate for that particular
moment—it would have been too close to the beginning of the piece. It is hard to
explain these types of decisions in a purely rational way. Perhaps I needed to hear
less distorted forms of the initial object at this early stage of the piece. On the other

Figure 53 Global structure of Allégories. Note: The arrows indicate a progressive

transition from one section to another. The double diagonal lines indicate a rupture.
 Contemporary Music Review 261
hand, the structure of the ‘clouds’ did function well as a sort of parenthesis;
therefore, I inserted an abridged version of this future section l, which became
section d. In the same way, e is a summary of the future section m. It also seemed
to me necessary to have a return to the initial situation before going on to explore
more distorted and distant regions (section g, which evokes the beginning of
section a). These distant correspondences between sections are symbolized on the
diagram by dotted lines.
The passage from one section to another can occur continuously, without rupture,
when one process provokes a progressive change of texture. These smooth transitions
are marked with an arrow. In these cases, there is no clearly perceptible end or
beginning to the sections—the letters are mere reference points for analysis or
rehearsals. At other moments, the transition from one section to the next provokes a
rupture in the discourse (symbolized by a double diagonal line). Please note that the
smooth transitional processes occur at the beginning and end of the piece: the most
disjointed part is part III.
As I said earlier, the harmonic processes support the formal processes. In the same
way that the three sections in part I are smoothly connected gesturally, there is a
single (smooth) harmonic progression that unifies them as well. This harmonic
process is built of a series of distortions of an aggregate drawn from a harmonic series
(this aggregate can be found at the beginning of section C). The piece opens with very
distorted spectra (a strongly inharmonic starting point that nonetheless is related to
the harmonic goal), then the spectra grow progressively less and less distorted, in a
zigzag evolution that avoids too much predictability, until the tension has been
released and the ‘defective’ harmonic spectra that opens section C (and was the basis
for all the distortions) is heard.
The harmonic object towards which the process is directed is a fragment of a
harmonic spectrum (containing partials 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, 13, 15, 18, 20 and 29).
Figure 54 shows this aggregate and its first two distortions. The reference partials
used to calculate the distortions are harmonics 3 and 29. For the first distortion,
the third harmonic is raised by 4.5 Hz, while the 29th harmonic is lowered by 62
Hz: the rest of the spectrum is modified as a function of those reference notes.
Thus a compressed spectrum is created: the low partials are raised and the higher
ones are lowered. The second distortion (3rd harmonic raised by 0.8 Hz, 29th
harmonic lowered by 90 Hz) generates another spectral compression with a
different colour. These ‘first two’ distortions are in fact the last two chords in the
progression, since the process converges on the harmonic spectrum of C (null
distortion) (Figure 55).
This convergence does not happen in the linear way you see on the graph. I wanted
dynamic harmonies that are continually changing. They needed to be oriented
towards a specific goal, but without creating the effect of an inexorable slide (which
would surely have resulted from a purely linear evolution of the distortion
coefficients). While we are certainly moving towards a goal, the trajectory is
capricious. To reduce the sensation of predictability a bit more, I vary slightly the
262 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

Figure 54 Fragment of a harmonic spectrum on Bb and two distortions. Note: The

values indicated under the partials 3 and 29 are the deviations in hertz that affect
them.

Figure 55 Evolution of the distortions from B to C. The curves indicate the amounts of
distortion that affect the two reference partials.

number and quality of spectral components in each aggregate. Figure 56 shows the
final harmonic progression, which extends from the beginning of section B to the
 Contemporary Music Review 263

Figure 56 Harmonic progression from B to C.

beginning of section C (with indications for the harmonic ranks used and the
reference deviations). And Figures 57a, b, c and d show the corresponding portion of
the final score.
These timbre-harmony aggregates are often quite interesting in and of
themselves. Nevertheless, it is, yet again, the relationships between the elements
that matter most. The entire goal is to organize the progression in a satisfying
manner. There is no hard and fast rule for this; it is a complex question, especially
with these types of rich, microtonal aggregates. However, in spite of the novelty of
the harmonies, the problems that must be solved are eternal: renewal or repetition
of the aggregates, presence or absence of ‘common tones’, attention to the motion
of the outer-most ‘voices’ (which are generally more salient), interplay of registers,
etc.
In certain cases, we need to hear a quick turnover of pitches (or at least have the
illusion of constantly hearing new pitches). This is what happens in this section of
Allégories, where the harmonic rhythm is rapid. Here, any impression of pitch stasis
would lead to an effect of redundancy or of ‘pleonasm’, that would be unpleasant—
because it would contradict the formal direction of the passage. However, when we
arrive at the final aggregate (at letter C)—which is by nature harmonic—we find
ourselves in a situation of harmonic stability—making pitch repetitions or even some
redundancies welcome.
I believe that the kinds of problems we have discussed arise in every period and in
all types of music. They are rarely highlighted and explained by traditional analysis,
which tends to look for the generative techniques of a musical style, rather than
studying the phenomenological reality of musical works. By studying this
264 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

phenomenological reality, one can say—as Messiaen liked to affirm—that ‘the music
of Mozart is not tonal, but rather chromatic’. One could also say that very many
‘serial’ works are seductive because they are, in fact, modally organized (emphasized
notes, frozen harmonic fields. . .). With regard to pieces that are called ‘spectral’, they
are undoubtedly more valuable for their original formal organization and the novel
 Contemporary Music Review 265

Figure 57 Allégories, section B.

ways they shape time than for their harmony–timbre aggregates (which, though often
strikingly different, have no intrinsic value except insofar as they express the form
and manipulate our perception of time).
266 T. Murail (trans. by A. Berkowitz & J. Fineberg)

Notes
[1] The absence of a precise and agreed-upon definition of a musical sound is sufficient to make
the interpretation of musical language directly modelled on grammatical-linguistic schemata
impossible.
[2] We can mention, for example, a Japanese bamboo flute called the shakuhachi, which is able
to produce a variety of ‘Aeolian’ sounds (that is to say mixtures of breath and sound). For
this reason it has become quite fashionable among young composers, who are not necessarily
Japanese.
[3] Though, in classical music theory, timbre is considered little more than an inexplicable
residue: ‘that which allows for the differentiation of sounds with the same pitch and
intensity.’
[4] Intonation exists in languages devoid of pitch, but it only serves to specify intention, or
expression (interrogation, exclamation), while in tonal languages, pitch is itself a
discriminating feature with its own impact on meaning.
[5] One of the Russian republics, situated to the North of Mongolia, whose ethnicity and culture
is similar to the Mongols.
[6] In this analysis, we formulated the hypothesis that the piano is a ‘harmonic’ instrument (i.e.
one whose spectrum would correspond precisely to a harmonic series). The sound of the
piano is, in reality, a bit inharmonic and presents a slight harmonic ‘distortion’. This kind of
harmonic distortion is a very interesting phenomenon about which we will speak more later.
[7] ‘Out-of-tune’ is used here to mean an involuntary and awkward result, one that does not
make sense in the stream of musical discourse. While one can certainly seek effects of
intervallic awkwardness with an expressive or colouristic goal, as long as the context is
coherent the sensation produced is not that the music is out of tune.
[8] In other words, if one has a fundamental of 100 Hz, the third harmonic will be 300 Hz (3 6
100), the fifth harmonic will be 500 Hz (5 6 100), etc. The relationship between harmonics
4 and 3 will thus be 4/3, and so on.
[9] Terhardt’s algorithm attributes a ‘perceptual weight’ to each of the partials of the sound. This
‘perceptual weight’ depends upon the amplitude of the partial, but also on possible masking
phenomena and the frequency response curve of the ear. If the weight of a given partial is
zero or very weak, it can probably be ignored.
[10] The spectra of the upper register of the flute, oboe and clarinet are all very similar. Their
timbre remains recognizable because of how they are played and because of the differences in
how they sustain the sound. Vibrato, breath effects, emission noises, etc. produce secondary
effects allowing the instruments to be identified. However, within a rich orchestration, these
instruments can easily substitute for one another without changing the global sonority.
[11] In my more recent mixed instrument and electronic pieces—written after this conference—I
have used techniques allowing the computer playback of the synthetic sounds to be
synchronized with the conductor’s beat.
[12] A frequency modulation or ring modulation spectrum can actually be fully harmonic if the
carrier and modulator or the sounds to be modulated are in a mathematically simple
relationship: in other words, if they are part of the same harmonic spectrum. In the graphic
representation above, a linear spectrum will be harmonic if the line that represents it
intersects the x axis at a whole number value (i.e. the value of ‘i’, the index of modulation).
[13] The Yamaha DX7 was the first commercial synthesizer to use the technique of frequency
modulation.
[14] See ‘Target Practice’ (in this issue), Example 1.
[15] This conference included a description of the Patchwork program for computer-assisted
composition, some basic notions of how MIDI represents notes, and some examples of
 Contemporary Music Review 267
simple musical algorithms. At that time, all of this was relatively new for composers. Now,
however, these concepts are better known and documented. Therefore, it did not seem
necessary to transcribe those passages.
[16] Since the time of these conferences, a newer program OpenMusic has largely replaced
Patchwork. Both programs are based on a similar paradigm, but the newer realization has
greater possibilities. OpenMusic is now widely used by composers.
[17] During the conference, Dominique My performed these examples on the piano; she also
performed the work in concert.
[18] The notions of harmonicity and roughness ought to take into account the interactions
between all possible combinations of pitches in an aggregate. In this case, it is simple, but
when the harmonic or spectral aggregates contain numerous, non-tempered components,
the problem becomes extremely complicated.
[19] Because 7 6 7=49. In fact, owing to approximation errors, C# would correspond more
closely to the 51st harmonic (or 50th or 52nd, all of which are quite close to each other and
all of which would have to be approximated to C# when approximating to the nearest
semitone).
[20] And even more so with its successor, OpenMusic.
[21] Striking examples of textural transformation can be found in Gérard Grisey’s Modulations.
At one point in the piece, a complex texture (close to Ligeti-style micro-polyphony)
progressively simplifies, becoming a sort of counterpoint, which in turn congeals into a
sequence of chords.
[22] Tape can now be replaced by digitized sound-files, but the problem of synchronization
remains.
Contemporary Music Review
Vol. 24, No. 2/3, April/June 2005, pp. 269 – 272

After-thoughts
Tristan Murail

Asking people to listen to a piece of music takes some of their time, some of their life:
the composer is stealing a little bit from the life of each listener. Is this the reason why
contemporary music is so much less popular than the contemporary visual arts,
which are certainly no easier to comprehend? While watching an exhibition, the
public maintains control of their time. If they do not like it, they can leave at any
point—while with music, the composer’s time is necessarily imposed upon the
listener. This creates an enormous responsibility on the part of the composer.
This responsibility means that music can neither be purely experimental nor
eliminate all elements of research. It should always provide interesting, and even new
(daring though the word seems to us today) propositions, while remaining
perceptible so that it can be received by the listener. This must be true even when
the composer is looking for extreme novelty or complexity: somewhere there must
exist a common ground where the composer and his audience can share an angle of
approach.
This leads to a certain number of consequences. Composers should not be satisfied
with music that is simply there to please. They should not allow the style of their
music to be dictated by fashions, the easy acceptance of institutions, of orchestras, or
of the regular concert-going audience. These are not sufficient reasons for writing
music, for stealing from the life of another. Unfortunately, a number of trends are
more and more prevalent in composition today which either ignore the problem of
communication or—resting on the ambiguous notion of postmodernism and on
pseudo-musicological or pseudo-philosophical discourses—are in fact not much
more than disguised academicism.
We are often told that the avant-garde is behind us, that we have achieved so much
distance and perspective that only a ‘postmodern’ attitude remains possible.
However, in my daily work as a composer this idea is disproved. I continue to
search for new ideas and materials. Some of this research is on a technical level—
clearly the case when speaking of developing new computer programs or new ways to
facilitate the comprehension of sonic analyses—but another type of research that I
perform daily is purely musical and aesthetic, looking for ways of effectively using the
material that I discover to create new sonic/musical objects. By ‘new’, I mean
something that I want to say but have not already said, and which no one else has said

ISSN 0749-4467 (print)/ISSN 1477-2256 (online) ª 2004 Taylor & Francis Ltd
DOI: 10.1080/07494460500154954
270 T. Murail
either. You cannot express original ideas by recycling old material: new thoughts need
to be formulated with new material. Our vision of the world has become so historical
now that, when we speak of the avant-garde, we automatically think of the avant-
garde of the 1950s. But, if we stick to the etymology of the word, by definition there
always will be an ‘avant-garde’ or our civilization is dead. Let’s stop being ashamed of
this notion!
This position may seem ironic, since at a certain point the ‘spectral movement’ was
seen as a reaction against the ‘avant-garde’. And, clearly, it was a reaction against
certain composers who believed that they were the avant-garde. But, in reality, it was
a reaction against their refusal to make even the slightest concessions to the
phenomena of auditory perception. Abstract combinations on paper are not musical
research. As a result, we fought against this type of musical behaviour. However, we
were not the only ones to criticize that music which was so prevalent during the late
1960s and early 1970s. Advocates of the music I referred to above as disguised
academicism accused the so-called avant-garde of emptying the concert halls and
alienating the listeners through their decadence and excesses; and, in a certain
manner, their criticism was justified. However, one need not respond to these
criticisms as they have.
The first pieces associated with ‘spectral music’ made only cursory attempts to use
spectra since, at the time, we lacked the technological and scientific tools and
information. In early pieces, like Gérard Grisey’s Partiels (1975) for 18 instruments,
the use of spectra is very timid: there is only a pseudo trombone spectrum. Most of
these early pieces made use of simulations of electronic systems such as ring
modulation and echoes, or the harmonic displacement or compression of abstract
harmonic series. In the first piece that captured my personal style—Mémoire-érosion
(1976) for French horn and instrumental ensemble—the main model is a feedback
system. The piece is not really spectral in that there are no spectra in it. However, I
tried to take into account the spectra and timbres of the instruments in constructing
the harmony for certain passages (e.g. making use of the strong 12th and 17th—3rd
and 5th partials—of sul ponticello notes played on string instruments) and to develop
an auditory continuum between timbre and harmony. But what is especially
noticeable in these early pieces is the (already present) notion of process.
Historically, the ideas of process and continuous change came before the real
spectral work. For me, this fascination with transforming objects and creating hybrids
was always there: it is almost congenital. I think retrospectively that this idea, coupled
with the importance that I (and others) place on working with harmony in a way that
completely controls it—giving strength to the formal construction—were the basic
ideas of spectral music. This was really a very new way of writing music and was
perhaps what most shocked a certain part of the musical establishment. Formally, the
music was built on principles completely different from other widely accepted
techniques. Development by proliferation, which is so easily recognized, was
abandoned, as was the systematic use of oppositions and dialectics. This was even
more shocking than the unusual sonorities, and I now think that this was the most
 Contemporary Music Review 271
novel aspect of spectral music. Contrary to often-heard superficial opinions, I have
often seen my pieces make more impact on the public through their form than as a
result of the harmonic or timbral refinement, which (one must face reality) only a few
people really appreciate; though, of course, there is a striking aspect to the timbre,
which is certainly not lost on the public. I do, however, believe those refinements are
indispensable for the reasons mentioned above: we are stealing people’s time and, so,
must give them a very high-quality musical time in return—a time where even the
smallest details are carefully perfected (like in a Japanese garden), even those details
that are not immediately visible.
The initial goal, which motivated our extensive timbral and harmonic research,
was the desire to develop the capacity to control the finest possible degrees of change.
Having achieved this, however, we began to feel that the music had perhaps become
too directional and predictable; we then had to find a way to re-introduce surprise,
contrast and rupture. Contrary to the widely held view, they were never truly absent;
even in the earliest pieces, like Partiels, there are quite a few unexpected turning
points. In Gondwana (1980) for orchestra, which is considered a typical piece from
this period, there is continuity, but there are also ruptures and many other types of
transition: passing of thresholds, reversing of the direction of motion, triggering of
‘catastrophic’ changes, abbreviated processes where only some of the steps in a
process are present, etc. Even in these early works, there is clearly more than pure
monodirectional and continuous evolutions. The increased formal discontinuity that
was to develop in the music should, therefore, be viewed more as a development than
as a renunciation.
As time went on, we also sought to introduce, with much care and hesitation, ideas
that were closer to the traditional dialectic. This also applies to melody. It took me a
very long time to re-introduce truly melodic elements into my music, because I was
afraid of returning to past melodic clichés, falling back into formulas of theme and
variation of all sorts. I wanted to find very personal melodic contours, and this is one
of the hardest things to do, since, today, everything melodic is connotated to a
frightening degree. On a formal level, too, it is not my goal to return to the Romantic
dialectic, nor to develop fragmented forms that would simply be a return to the
formal conceits of the fifties. The solution lies elsewhere. There must be a logic and a
continuity behind the apparent fragmentation. This is what I have tried to achieve in
recent years: a more versatile and mobile form (more dialectic even, if one insists
upon viewing things from that angle) capable of linking together the ideas of
contrast, tension-resolution and many other formal devices, while retaining an
underlying musical logic. Harmony has been an important asset for building more
complex structures that, nonetheless, retain perceptual clarity in their formal
development.
Unlike the evolution of formal elements, where we have moved considerably away
from our point of departure, spectral harmony has steadily grown and flourished,
aided by ever-improving technological and scientific support. When I speak of
harmony, I refer to something very specific: what has been called ‘frequencial
272 T. Murail
harmony’. I think this term is more accurate than ‘spectral’ harmony since it includes
harmonies far beyond just spectra. Through this approach to harmony, it is possible
to create harmonies (or timbres) that are completely invented, through analogies to
the spectra found in nature. Most of my pieces, in fact, are built on structures that are
not direct spectral observations: this is what I call ‘frequencial harmony’. These
harmonies are conceived outside the domain of equal temperment, equal-tempered
quarter- or eighth-tones and form an unlimited harmonic realm, which happens to
be contiguous to timbral space, thus placing us in a domain where harmony and
timbre are more or less the same thing. There are often striking sonorities in ‘spectral’
pieces that many people attribute to some arcane craft of orchestration we have
developed. They do not understand that those sonorities are in fact created through
the harmonies, the notes, the pitches. Or, rather, that pitch structures and
orchestration have become one and same thing.
I realize now that, over the years, I have struggled to develop an awareness and an
expertise in this domain of harmony that few people have taken the trouble to seek. I
am very surprised that this harmonic dimension has so completely disappeared from
composers’ preoccupations when, in fact, it is so rich and powerful. I can recall, in the
eighties, other composers going so far as to mock me for worrying too much about
harmony: this was simply not done. This attitude is reflected in many of my students;
their most common deficiency is the lack of harmonic awareness. They write music
that may have strong gestures, but that ultimately does not function over time
because the harmony fails to support the form. Harmony, through its relation to
form, gave tonal music its strength; nowadays, it has too often been reduced to a
simply decorative function. The mere existence of pitches even seems to be a nuisance
for certain composers. I think it is time to reconsider the role of harmony and timbre
within formal constructions—and this does not only apply to ‘spectral’ styles.
Only now have I begun to feel as if I have obtained the technical means to carry out
my dreams of adolescence: I imagined certain ambitious works, but lacked the
capacity to realize them. With a piece like L’Esprit des dunes (1994), for ensemble and
electronics, I feel that I have succeeded in doing something that I could have easily
dreamed of doing when I was 20 or even younger. In a piece like that, there is
research on the level of pure technology, but there is also musical research into the
combination of sounds; this may not be immediately apparent, but so much the
better. And while the ‘poetic’ side of the piece probably has an even greater impact
than the spectral contents, the ‘poetry’ depends utterly on their careful construction.
Creating this sense of research, newness and ‘avant-garde’ while still maintaining a
coherent and comprehensible musical discourse is my real goal.
Contemporary Music Review
Vol. 24, No. 2/3, April/June 2005, pp. 273 – 274

Bibliography

Works by Tristan Murail

McAdams, S., Winsberg, S., Murail, T., Fineberg, J., Bigant, E., & Drake, C. (1994).
Dissonance: ‘Allégories’ of the Concept and ‘Désintégrations’ of the
Preconceptions. 3rd International Conference for Music Perception and
Cognition, Liège, Belgium, July 1994.
Murail, T. (1980). La révolution des sons complexes. Darmstadt: Schott. (Reprinted
in Actes de la semaine de musique contemporaine, Académie de France à Rome &
France Culture, 1982)
Murail, T. (1982). Spectres et lutins. Darmstadt: Schott. (Reprinted in IRCAM, une
pensée musicale, 1984, Paris-Montreux: Interéditions)
Murail, T. (1984). Spectra and pixies [Spectres et lutins]. Contemporary Music Review,
1.
Murail, T. (1988). Scelsi, l’Itinéraire—l’exploration du son. Le Journal de Royaumont.
Murail, T. (1989). Questions de cible. Revue Entretemps, 8.
Murail, T. (1990). Spektre og pixies [Spectres et lutins]. Ballade, March, Oslo.
Murail, T. (1990/1991). Kristi syv ord på korset [The seven words of Christ]. Dansk
Musik Tidsskrift, 6.
Murail, T. (1991). ‘Ecrire avec le lire electronic, Revue Musicale,’ Paris, September
1991.
Murail, T. (1992). Scelsi, de-compositore. In Giacinto Scelsi—viaggio al centro del
suono. La Spezia: LunaEditore.
Murail, T. (1992). A revolução dos sons complexos [La révolution des sons
complexes]. São Paulo: Cadernos de estudo—anàlise musical.
Murail, T. (1992). Composition et environnements informatiques. Interview with
Danielle Cohen-Levinas. Cahiers de l’IRCAM, 1(automne). (Reprinted in
Causeries sur la Musique, Danielle Cohen-Levinas (Ed.), 2000, Editions
L’Harmattan)
Murail, T. (1994) Un temps pour chaque son. Interview with Michel Passelergue.
Phréatique, 68/69.
Murail, T. (1999). ‘‘Scelsi, der De-Komponist [Scelsi, de-compositore]. Musiktexte,
81/82, December.
Murail, T. (2000), After-thoughts. Contemporary Music Review, 19, 3.
Murail, T. (2001). Le temps des convergences est révolu. In Musiques Actuelles,
musique savante. Paris: L’Harmattan.

ISSN 0749-4467 (print)/ISSN 1477-2256 (online) ª 2005 Taylor & Francis

DOI: 10.1080/07494460500154970
274 Bibliography
Murail, T. (2003). Ostrava seminar. In Ostrava Days 2003 Report. Ostrava, Czech
Republic, and New York: Ostrava Center for New Music.
Murail, T. (2004). Modèles et artifices (Pierre Michel, Ed.). Presses Universitaires de
Strasbourg.

Works by Other Authors

Anderson, J. (1989). Dans le contexte. Revue Entretemps, 8.
Anderson, J. (1993). In harmony—the music of Tristan Murail. The Musical Times,
June, 1993.
Dalbavie, M.-A. (1989). Notes sur ‘Gondwana’. Revue Entretemps, 8.
Daubresse, E. & Assayag, G. (2000). Technology and creation. Contemporary Music
Review.
Garant, D. (2001). Tristan Murail, une expression musicale modélisée. Paris: Editions
L’Harmattan.
Humbertclaude, E. (1986). Le reflet d’une oreille. 20ème siècle-Images de la musique
française. SACEM & Papiers.
Humbertclaude, E. (1987). Les modèles perceptuels par simulation instrumentale
dans les œuvres de Tristan Murail. Dissonanz/Dissonance (La nouvelle revue
musicale suisse), August 13). (Reprinted in Revue Musicale, 1990, September
[Special issue].
Humbertclaude, E. (1999). La transcription dans Boulez et Murail. Paris: Editions
L’Harmattan.
Ledoux, C. (2000). From the philosophical to the practical—the music of Tristan
Murail. Contemporary Music Review, 19(3).
Popovici, F. (1990). Tristan Murail. Studii de Muzicologie, Bucharest.
Rose, F. (1996). Introduction to the pitch organization of French spectral music.
Perspectives on New Music , 34(2), 6 – 39.
Rovner, A. (1998). An interview with Tristan Murail. 20th Century Music, December,
5 – 12. (Reprinted in Russian, Musikalna Akademya, Moscow, 1999)
Szendy, P. (Ed.). (2002). Tristan Murail. Collection ‘Compositeurs d’aujourd’hui’.
Paris: IRCAM & Editions L’Harmattan.
Contemporary Music Review
Vol. 24, No. 2/3, April/June 2005, pp. 275 – 279

Tristan Murail: Catalogue of Works

Works for Orchestra

Altitude 8000. (1970). 13’, small orchestra, 2121 – 2110 – hp, vibra – 8,6,6,4,3. Paris:
Editions Transatlantiques. (Premiered 18 January 1971 by the Orchestre du
Conservatoire National de Paris, cond. by Claire Gibault, Salle Gaveau, Paris)
Au-delà du mur du son. (1972). 20’, orchestra, 3333 – 4331 – 3 pc, 2 hp, cel –
14,12,10,8,6. Paris: Editions Transatlantiques. (Premiered 10 June 1972 by the RAI
Orchestra, Rome, cond. by B. de Vinogradow)
Sables. (1974/1975). 16’, orchestra, 4333 – 4431 – 4 pc, 2 hp, pia – 14,12,10,8,6.
Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 22 March 1975 by the Orchestre National de
France, cond. by Lukas Vis, Festival de Royan)
Les courants de l’espace. (1979). 20’, ondes Martenot plus synthesizer, and small
orchestra, 2121 – 1110 – 3 pc, pia – 7321 (commissioned by the French Ministry of
Culture). Paris: Editions Transatlantiques. (Premiered 20 December 1980, by the
Orchestre National de Radio-France, Paris)
Gondwana. (1980). 16’30, orchestra, 3333 – 4331 – 3 pc, hp, pia – 14,12,10,8,6
(commissioned by the town of Darmstadt). Paris: Editions Transatlantiques.
(Premiered 21 July 1980 by Krakow Orchestra, cond. by Antony Wit, Ferienkurse,
Darmstadt)
Sillages. (1985). 18’, orchestra, 4343 – 4431 – 3 pc, hp, pia, cel – 14,12,10,8,6
(commissioned by the Kyoto Community Bank). Paris: Editions Lemoine.
(Premiered 9 September 1985 by the Kyoto Orchestra, cond. by Seiji Ozawa, Kyoto)
(New version, 1990, 4343 – 4431 – 3 pc, hp, pia, cel – 10,8,6,6,4; performed 16
November 1990, by the Orchestre Opéra de Lyon, cond. by George Benjamin,
Rencontres Internationales de Metz)
Time and again. (1985). 15’, orchestra, 3342 – 4331 – 4 pc, pia, DX7 synth. –
8,6,4,4,3 (commissioned by the Birmingham Symphony Orchestra). Paris: Editions
Lemoine. (Premiered 21 January 1986 by the Birmingham Symphony Orchestra,
cond. by Simon Rattle, Birmingham)
Les sept paroles du Christ en croix. (1) De ciel et de terre. (1986/1987). 12’, orchestra,
4444-4441 – 4 pc, hp, pia – 14 (16), 12 (14), 10 (12), 8 (10), 6 (8) (commissioned by
the Koussevitzky Foundation). Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 28 October 1989
by the BBC Symphony Orchestra, BBC Chorus, BBC Singers, cond. by P. Eötvös,
Royal Festival Hall, London)
Les sept paroles du Christ en croix. (2) Les sept paroles. (1987/1988). 35’, orchestra
and choir, 4444 – 4441 – 4 pc, hp, pia, 2 DX7 synth. – 14 (16), 12 (14), 10 (12), 8 (10),

ISSN 0749-4467 (print)/ISSN 1477-2256 (online) ª 2005 Taylor & Francis

DOI: 10.1080/07494460500154988
276 Catalogue of Works
6 (8) – choir. Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 28 October 1989, by the BBC
Symphony Orchestra, BBC Chorus, BBC Singers, cond. by P. Eötvös, Royal Festival
Hall, London)
La dynamique des fluids. (1990/1991). 15’, orchestra, 4232 – 4331 – 3 perc, hp,
piano + cel, synth., 10,8,6,6,6 (commissioned by the Orchestra Toscanini, Parma).
Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 17 June 1991 by the Orchestra Toscanini, cond.
by A. Tamayo, Parma)
Le partage des eaux. (1995). 22’, orchestra, 4343 – 6431 – 4 perc, 2 hp, piano, synth.,
16-14-12-10-8 (commissioned by Radio-France). Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Pre-
miered 14 November 1997 by the Orchestre Philharmonique de Radio-France, cond.
by Marek Janowski, Salle Pleyel, Paris)
Terre d’ombre. (2003/2004). 25’, orchestra and electronic sounds, 4444 – 6440 – 3
perc, 2 hp, piano, MIDI keyboard, synth., strings (commissioned by MaerzMusik).
Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 20 March 2004 by the Orchestra SWR, cond. by
Sylvain Cambreling, Philharmonie Hall, Berlin)

Works for Ensemble

Couleur de mer. (1969). 13’30, 15 instruments, 1110 – 1110 – pia, hp, elect. organ, 2
pc – 1111 (commissioned by Maison de la Culture du Havre). Paris: Editions
Transatlantiques. (Premiered 13 May 1969 by the Ensemble Musique Vivante, cond.
by Diego Masson, Maison de la Culture du Havre)
L’attente. (1972). 16’, 7 instruments, fl (doubling G fl, bass fl ad lib.), cl, hp, 2 vn,
va, cello. Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 18 November 1972, Paris) (New
version, 1992, performed 6 November 1992 by the Ensemble Prisme, cond. by Joyce
Shintani)
Mémoire/Erosion. (1975/1976). 15’30, horn and 9 instruments, 1111 – 0000 – 2111
(commissioned by the French Ministry of Culture). Paris: Editions Transatlantiques.
(Premiered 5 March 1976 by L’Itinéraire, Semaines Musicales d’Orléans)
Ethers. (1978). 21’, 6 instruments, fl, cl, tbn, va, cello, cb, maracas (commissioned
by Radio-France). Paris: Editions Transatlantiques. (Premiered 6 June 1978 by
L’Itinéraire, cond. by Jacques Mercier, Gulbenkian Foundation, Lisbon)
Désintégrations. (1982). 22’, 17 instruments and computer sounds, 2121 – 1110 – 2
pc, pia – 2111 (commissioned by IRCAM). Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 15
February 1983 by the Ensemble Intercontemporain, cond. by P. Eötvös, IRCAM,
Paris)
Allégories. (1989/1990). 17’, 6 instruments and electronic sounds, fl (picc), clar,
horn, vn, cello, perc, electronics: Macintosh, Midi keyboard, synthesizer TX816
(commissioned by the French Ministry of Culture). Paris: Editions Lemoine.
(Premiered 13 March 1990 by Musique Oblique, Ars Musica, Bruxelles) (New
version, 2000, electronics: Macintosh computer, Midi keyboard)
Serendib. (1991/1992). 16’, 22 instruments, 2130 – 2110 – 3 perc, hp, piano, synth.,
2121 (commissioned by Ensemble Intercontemporain). Paris: Editions Lemoine.
 Contemporary Music Review 277
(Premiered 18 June 1992 by the Ensemble Intercontemporain, cond. Kent Nagano,
Paris)
L’esprit des dunes. (1993/1994). 16’, 11 instruments and computer sounds, 2110 –
1010 – perc – 1111, electronics: Macintosh, Midi keyboard, amplification of ensemble
souhaitée (commissioned by IRCAM). Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 28 May
1994 by the Ensemble Intercontemporain, cond. by Pascal Rophé, IRCAM, Paris)
Le lac. (2000/2001). 23’, 19 instruments, 2121 – 1110 – 2 pc hp pno – 2121
(commissioned by Wien Klangforum). Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 13
March 2001 by the Wien Klangforum, cond. by Emilio Pomárico, Graz,
Musikprotokoll)
Pour adoucir le cours du temps. (2004/2005). 18’, 18 instruments and computer
sounds, 2131 – 2110 – piano – 3111, electronics: Macintosh, Midi keyboard (commis-
sioned by GMEM and the French Institute in Prague). Paris: Editions Lemoine.
(Premiered 21 May 2005, Prague Philharmonia, cond. by Michel Swiercziewski,
Festival Les Musiques, Marseille)

Chamber Music and Works for Small Ensembles

Où tremblent les contours. (1970). 9’, 2 violas. Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 20
November 1970, Paris)
Mach 2,5. (1971). 8’, 2 ondes Martenot. Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 2
February 1972, Paris) (Version for 6 ondes Martenot, 1975, 10’)
Les Nuages de Magellan. (1973). 13’, 2 ondes Martenot, elect. guitar, perc. Paris:
Editions Billaudot. (Premiered 23 March 1973, Semaines Musicales d’Orléans)
Tigres de verre. (1974). 7’, ondes Martenot and piano (Concours du CNSM de
Paris). Paris: Editions Lemoine.
Treize couleurs du soleil couchant. (1978). 12’30, 5 instruments, fl, cl, pia, vn,
cello + electronics ad lib. (commissioned by the Paris Goethe Institut). Paris:
Editions Transatlantiques. (Premiered 4 December 1979 by the ensemble L.I.M.,
Madrid)
Atlantys. (1986). 9’, 2 synthesizers DX7 Yamaha. Paris: Editions Lemoine.
(Premiered 26 July 1986 by T. Murail & F. Pellié, King’s Lynn, England)
Vision de la cité interdite. (1986). 9’, 2 synthesizers DX7 Yamaha. Paris: Editions
Lemoine. (Premiered 26 July 1986 by T. Murail & F. Pellié, King’s Lynn, England)
Vues aériennes. (1988). 12’30, horn, violin, cello, piano (commissioned by the Arts
Council for the Nash Ensemble). Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 1 December
1988 by the Nash Ensemble, London)
Le fou à pattes bleues. (1990). 9’, flute (G, C) and piano. Paris: Editions Lemoine.
(Premiered 21 November 1991 by D. My & P. Bocquillon, Radio-France, Programme
France Musique)
La barque mystique. (1993). 12’, 5 instruments, fl, cl, pia, vn, cello (commissioned
by Mme Hahnloser). Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 16 October 1993 by the
Ensemble Court-Circuit, cond. by P.-A. Valade, Berne)
278 Catalogue of Works
Bois flotté. (1996). 15’, 5 instruments and computer sounds, tbn, piano, vn, va,
cello, electronics: Macintosh, Midi keyboard, amplification of instruments,
reverberation (commissioned by Centro Galego d’Arte Contemporanea). Paris:
Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 12 December 1996 by the Ensemble CGAC, cond. by
P.-A. Valade, Santiago de Compostela)
Feuilles à travers les cloches. (1998). 6’, flute, violin, cello, piano (commissioned by
Ens. Pärlor vor Svin, Stockholm. Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 12 April 1999
by the Ensemble Pärlor vor Svin, Stockholm)
Winter fragments. (2000). 13’, 5 instruments and computer sounds, fl, cl, piano, vn,
cello, electronics: Macintosh , Midi keyboard, amplification of instruments,
reverberation (commissioned by Collectif et Cie, Annecy). Paris: Editions Lemoine.
(Premiered 21 November 2000 by the Ensemble Les Temps Modernes, Annecy)

Solos
Estuaire. (1971/1972). 9’, piano (2 pieces). Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 15
May 1974 by Marie-Cécile Milan, Radio France, Programme France-Culture)
C’est un jardin secret, ma soeur, ma fiancée, une source scellée, une fontaine close. . ..
(1976). 4’, viola. Paris: Editions Transatlantiques. (Premiered 6 June 1978 by G.
Renon, Fondation Gulbenkian, Lisbon) (Version for cello, 1994, Paris: Editions
Transatlantiques)
Territoires de l’oubli. (1976/1977). 25’, piano. Paris: Editions Transatlantiques.
(Premiered 22 May 1978, M. Levinas, Accademia Filarmonica, Rome)
Tellur. (1977). 10’, guitar. Paris: Editions Transatlantiques. (Premiered 26 April
1977 by R. Andia, Salle Cortot, Paris)
La conquête de l’Antarctique. (1982). 9’, ondes Martenot. Paris: Editions Lemoine.
(Premiered 2 March 1984 by Françoise Pellié, Cité Internationale des Arts, Paris)
Vampyr!. (1984). 9’, electric guitar. Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered October
1987 by Claude Pavy, Angers Festival)
Cloches d’adieu, et un sourire (1992). 3’, piano (in memoriam Olivier Messiaen).
Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 14 July 1992 by Dominique My, Acanthes
Festival, Chartreuse de Villeneuve-lès-Avignon, France)
Attracteurs estranges. (1992). 8’, cello (commissioned by UPIC for Iannis Xenakis’s
70th birthday). Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 8 December 1992 by Rohan de
Saram, Radio-France, Paris)
La mandragore. (1993). 9’, piano (commissioned by the French Ministry of Culture
and Tomoko Yazawa). Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 27 November 1993 by
Tomoko Yazawa, Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo)
Unanswered questions. (1995). 5’, flute (en souvenir de Dominique Troncin). Paris:
Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 5 May 1995 by Patrice Bocquillon, Radio-France, Paris)
Les travaux et les jours. (2002). 30’, piano (commissioned by the Fromm
Foundation). Paris: Editions Lemoine. (Premiered 11 March 2003 by Marilyn
Nonken, Miller Theater, New York)
 Contemporary Music Review 279

Vocal Music
. . .amaris et dulcibus aquis. . .. (1994). 15’, large choir and 2 synthesizers
(commissioned by Internationales Forum Chor Musik). Paris: Editions Lemoine.
(Premiered 9 May 1997, BBC Singers, London) (New version, 2005, Macintosh &
Midi keyboard (1 player), instead of synthesizers)

Publishers
Editions Billaudot, 14 rue de l’Echiquier, 75010 Paris, France. Tel.: + 33 1 47 70 14 46.
Editions Lemoine, 41 rue Bayen, 75017 Paris, France. Tel.: + 33 1 56 68 86 65;
Email: [email protected]; Website/Internet sales: www.editions-lemoine.fr
Editions Transatlantiques, 2 passage de Crimée, 75019 Paris, France. Tel.: + 33 1 42
09 97 70; Fax: + 33 1 42 09 93 35; Email: [email protected]

Agents
USA/Canada
Theodore Presser, 588 North Gulph Road, King Of Prussia, PA, 19406, USA. Tel.:
+ 1 610 525 36 36; Fax: + 1 610 527 78 41; Website: www.presser.com

UK
United Music Publishers, 42 Rivington Street, London EC2A 3BN, UK. Tel.: + 44
20 7729 4700; Fax: + 44 20 7739 6549; Website: www.ump.co.uk
Contemporary Music Review
Vol. 24, No. 2/3, April/June 2005, pp. 281 – 283

Discography

Monographic Recordings
Murail, T. (1978) Mémoire/Erosion, Ethers, C’est un jardin secret. . [Recorded by
Ensemble L’Itinéraire cond. by J. Mercier and C. Bruck] [LP, Sappho S003]. France:
Sappho.
Murail, T. (1992) Mémoire/Erosion, Ethers, C’est un jardin secret. . ., Les Courants de
l’Espace [Recorded by Ensemble L’Itinéraire cond. by J. Mercier and C. Bruck;
Orchestre National de France, cond. by Yves Prin] [CD, Accord 202122]. Accord/
Musidisc.
(Re-released in 2002 [CD, Accord 465 900 – 02], France: Universal Music/Accord)
Murail, T. (1990). Gondwana, Désintégrations, Time and Again (Grand Prix du
Disque, Académie Charles Cros, 1990) [Recorded by Ensemble L’Itinéraire, Orchestre
National de France, cond. by Yves Prin; Orchestre Beethoven Halle de Bonn, cond. By
K.A. Rickenbacher] [CD, SCD 8902]. France : Salabert-Trajectoires.
(Re-released in 2003 [CD, MO782175], France: Disques Montaigne/Naı̈ve)
Murail, T. (1992) Mémoire/Erosion, Ethers, C’est un jardin secret. . ., Les Courants de
l’Espace [Recorded by Ensemble L’Itinéraire cond. by J. Mercier and C. Bruck;
Orchestre National de France, cond. by Yves Prin] [CD, Accord 202122]. France:
Accord/Musidisc.
(Re-released in 2002 [CD, Accord 465 900 – 02], France: Universal Music/Accord)
Murail, T. (1992). Territoires de l’Oubli, Vues Aériennes, Allégories (Grand Prix du
Président de la République, Académie Charles Cros, 1992) [Recorded by Ensemble
FA, Dominique My] [CD, Accord 200842]. France: Accord/Musidisc.
(Re-released in 2000 [CD, Accord 465 899 – 02], France: Universal Music/Accord)
Murail, T. (1996). Désintégrations, Serendib, L’Esprit des Dunes [Recorded by
Ensemble Intercontemporain, cond. by David Robertson] [CD, AD 750]. France:
Adès/Universal Music.
Murail, T. (1997). Couleur de Mer, L’Attente, 13 Couleurs du Soleil Couchant,
Attracteurs étranges, La Barque Mystique [Recorded by Ensemble Court-Circuit,
Antoine Ladrette, cond. by Pierre-André Valade] [CD, Accord 204 672]. France:
Accord/Musidisc.
(Re-released in 2000 [CD, Accord 465 901 – 02], France: Universal Music/Accord)
Murail, T. (2002). 13 Couleurs du Soleil Couchant, Bois Flotté, Winter Fragments
[Recorded by Ensemble Les Temps Modernes, cond. by Fabrice Pierre] [CD, Accord
472 511 – 2]. France: Universal Music/Accord.

ISSN 0749-4467 (print)/ISSN 1477-2256 (online) ª 2004 Taylor & Francis Ltd
DOI: 10.1080/07494460500155001
282 Discography
Murail, T. (2005). Le Lac, Winter Fragments, Feuilles a’ travers les cloches, Ethers,
Unanswered questions [Ensemble Argento, cond. by Michel Galante] [CD, AECD
0532]. France: Aeon/Harmonia Mundi.
Murail, T. (2005). Tristan Murail, The Complete Piano Music [Recorded by M.
Nonken] [CD, MSV CD92097(a + b)]. UK : Métier Records; Distribution USA:
Albany Music ; Distribution; UK: Priory.

DVD— with videos by Hervé Bailly-Bazin

Murail, T. (2002). 13 Couleurs du Soleil Couchant, Bois Flotté, Winter Fragments
(Grand Prix du Disque, Académie Charles Cros, 2002) [Recorded by Ensemble Les
Temps Modernes, cond. by Fabrice Pierre] [DVD, Accord 472 510 – 9]. France:
Universal Music/Accord.

Other Works Appearing on CD

Murail, T. (1988). 13 Couleurs du Soleil Couchant [Recorded by Ensemble
L’Itinéraire]. On Espaces électriques [CD, SCD 8801]. France: Salabert-Actuels/
Harmonia Mundi.
Murail, T. (1991). Mach 2,5 [Recorded by Ensemble d’Ondes de Montréal] [CD,
SNE-574-CD]. Canada: Société Nouvelle d’Enregistrement.
Murail, T. (1991). Territoires de l’Oubli [Recorded by Ichiro Nodaı̈ra, piano]. On
Territoires de l’Oubli [CD, APCC-8]. Japan : Apollon.
Murail, T. (1991). 13 Couleurs du Soleil Couchant [Recorded by Ensemble
L’Itinéraire]. On Nuova Musica per l’Europa: France [CD, CDC 59]. Italy : Fonit
Cetra.
Murail, T. (1995). Mach 2,5, La Conquête de l’Antarctique [Recorded by Takashi
Harada] [CD, VICC-124]. Japan: Victor Entertainment Inc.
Murail, T. (1995). Unanswered questions [Recorded by Patrice Bocquillon, flute]
[CD, MFA 216007]. France: MFA-Radio-France.
Murail, T. (1996). La Mandragore, Cloches d’Adieu. . . [Recorded by Dominique
My, piano] [CD, Accord 205752]. France: Accord/Musidisc.
Murail, T. (1996). Tellur [Recorded by Rafael Andia]. On Guitar [CD, 590019].
France: Sappho/Musidisc.
Murail, T. (1996). 13 Couleurs du Soleil Couchant. On 50 Jahre Neue Musik in
Darmstadt [CD, CD 837/2]. Germany : Col Legno.
Murail, T. (1997). Allégories [Recorded by Ensemble Cikada, cond. by Christian
Eggen] [CD, ALBCD 005]. Norway: Albedo.
Murail, T. (1997). Estuaire, La Mandragore [Recorded by Hideki Nagano, piano]
[CD, FOCD 3418]. Japan: Fontec.
Murail, T. (1997). Mémoire/Erosion [Recorded by Ensemble Fa, cond. by
Dominique My]. On Répertoires polychromes 1 [CD, MFA 216021/22]. France:
MFA-Radio-France.
 Discography 283
Murail, T. (1997). Tellur [Recorded by Stephan Ö stersjö] [CD dBCD31]. Sweden:
dB Productions.
Murail, T. (1998). C’est un jardin secret [Recorded by Antoine Tamestit, viola] [CD
SIMC 01]. France: SIMC-SACEM.
Murail, T. (1998). Tigres de Verre [Recorded by Estelle Lemire, ondes Martenot &
Adrienne Park, piano] [CD, SNE-616-CD]. Canada: Société Nouvelle d’Enregistre-
ment.
Murail, T. (2001). Serendib [Recorded by Ensemble Intercontemporain, cond. by
David Robertson]. On Hier und Jetzt [CD, 461 892-2]. Germany : Universal Music.
Murail, T. (2001). Vampyr!. On Tim Brady, 10 Collaborations [Canadian
Broadcasting Corporation] [CD, SNE-616-CD/Jtr 8484]. Canada: Just in Time
Records.
Murail, T. (2002). Territoires de l’Oubli, Cloches d’Adieu. . . [Recorded by Roger
Muraro, piano] [CD, MFA 216014] France: MFA-Radio-France.
Murail, T. (2003). Vampyr! [Recorded by Wiek Hijmans, electric guitar]. On
Electric Solo! [CD, X-OR CD 12]. Netherlands : Stichting X-OR.
Murail, T. (2003). C’est un jardin secret [Recorded by Garth Knox, viola]. On
Spectral Viola [CD, ez-10012]. Germanty : Zeitklang-WDR.