The Inside Story: Anthony Brandt and LIVEWIRE AND MEETING OF MINDS

Anthony Brandt’s LIVEWIRE AND MEETING OF MINDS features two innovative dance scores created for collaborations with NobleMotion Dance and the University of Houston IUCRC BRAIN Center that were part performance and part scientific experiment. Brandt’s music offers “sonic brain scans” that explore our mental lives and how we engage with others, from our most automated behavior to our most flexible and dynamic.

Today, Anthony is our featured artist in the “Inside Story,” a blog series exploring the inner workings and personalities of our composers and performers. Read on to learn his thoughts on remaining open to new influences, and his advice for running a successful rehearsal…

What musical mentor had the greatest impact on your artistic journey? Is there any wisdom they’ve imparted onto you that still resonates today?

I’d like to salute my two primary teachers: Mel Powell and Earl Kim. Mel used to say that you can tell a student something 33 times and they don’t understand it; then the 34th time they think they thought it up themselves. Mel was famous among his students for his aphorisms, which distilled compositional principles into memorable phrases — for example, “Repetition ensures closure” and “Orchestration is animating the inert.” Many times I’ve wondered if an “original idea” I’ve had is in fact the 34th time I’ve thought about something that Mel taught me. 

Working with Mel was an apprenticeship: he encouraged you to write in his style and treated your piece as if it was his own. From Earl, I learned a very different lesson: being true to what you hear. He taught at the piano, and worked through every sound, asking about its meaning and motivation. He was skeptical of anything thought but not heard. There are times when what I’m hearing in my head defies how I’d like my music to sound. But Earl’s teaching was a reminder that you’re not writing someone else’s music, you’re writing your own, and for that, you have to tune in with conviction to your internal aural simulations.

What advice would you give to your younger self if given the chance?

There’s a recent Netflix documentary called Stutz, in which the actor Jonah Hill interviews his therapist. I didn’t think I’d like it, but I actually took several valuable lessons from it. Thanks to the movie, I’ve adopted the principle that there’s a direct correlation between the proportion of problems that you can solve for yourself and your personal happiness. That is, the more you rely on other people to fix something that’s upsetting you, the more frustrated and unfulfilled you’re likely to be. Sure, none of us could function without division of labor: that’s why there are dentists and auto mechanics. But in the face of adversity, the greatest feeling of hope I have is when I realize I can own the problem and it’s up to me to correct it. I wish I knew that lesson when I was younger.

How do you prepare for a performance?

Nothing is more crucial than making good use of rehearsal time. I’m a big believer in the “sandwich method.” The players are laying it all on the line for you. When offering feedback, start with a genuine compliment or acknowledgement: that shows that we’re all on the same team. Then offer any critiques, and close with another positive remark. How many times have I seen rehearsals boil over when the composer starts in right away with criticisms.

I also think about rehearsals like a funnel: you’ve got the greatest latitude to make adjustments and try out options at the outset. The closer it gets to the performance, the more it’s about building performer confidence. A colleague tells a story about a composer who called out a last minute correction just as the musicians were walking on stage. It didn’t go well.

I’ve found that, if my piece is played accurately and confidently then, win, lose or draw, I can live with what anyone thinks about it. What matters most is that the audience heard what I intended. For that to happen, it all comes down to rehearsing.

Where and when are you at your most creative?

Over the years, I’ve learned that, to function at my best, I need a stretch of unbroken time: otherwise, it’s hard to build up momentum — it’s like driving with a stop sign at every block. Beginnings are always the hardest but there’s no way around them, so I’ve trained myself to jump right in the moment I’ve got a few open weeks. I’m also a morning person: I love getting in 4–5 hours composing before lunch. Composers have to enforce their own boundaries, so for me, no emails or phone calls until noon. That way, if life intervenes later on, at least I’ve already done a good day’s work. 

What emotions do you hope listeners will experience after hearing your work?

Concert music involves holding the listener’s attention — it’s a form of abstract storytelling, with the concert hall as the campfire. In order to accomplish that, a composer is tasked with two main challenges: give listeners what they are expecting but better than they could have imagined it; and surprise them with something familiar in the piece but presented in an unexpected way. Emotional responses — which are personal and hard to predict — are an internal confirmation that the composer has accomplished those two main goals.

How have your influences changed as you grow as a musician?

Some of my favorite moments developing as a musician have involved pivot points where I’ve grown to love something I had previously rejected. When I first heard Pierre Boulez’s Le Marteau sans maître in college, I was so put off I dragged the needle across the record — I didn’t care if anyone ever listened to it again. Fast forward a few years later: as a grad student at CalArts, I had the chance to hear Boulez conduct the piece live in Los Angeles. I remember sitting there thinking that it was like listening to a miraculous waterfall, and wishing that the performance would never end.

Around the same time, Morton Feldman was in residence for a semester. Comp seminar was typically two hours long, but Feldman requested four-hour sessions. At first, these meetings seemed interminable, and the repetitiveness of his music drove me to distraction. One day, he held a vote: who was the greater composer, Schoenberg or Cage? The class tied, so Feldman cast the deciding vote — for Cage. That was more than I could take; I skipped class the next two weeks. However, when I came back, something had snapped inside me. I no longer fought off Feldman: I realized that I didn’t need to put a fence around my personal taste, and the musical territory that I embraced could grow to include him. I remember hearing the premiere of his Coptic Light by the NY Philharmonic a few months later and being in awe.

Boulez and Feldman were antagonists, but somehow they could live comfortably inside me. I think that’s one of the biggest lessons of my generation.