Come in and out of silence,
Tone swirling in the balance.
Nothing, then everything
Waving into space.

Then Light.
And after a longer while
Air.
And now sixteen strings manually animated, Vibrating through time.

*   *   *

When Harumi Rhodes of the Takács Quartet invited me to write a piece for the group, I was surprised, greatly honored and fearful. The string quartet is considered a ‘perfect’ ensemble. It inspires delicacy, sensitivity and adventure. The core range is smaller than that of the piano, yet its timbre allows for beauteous interplay. Harumi asked that the quartet be about anything in the natural world, an idea requested by lead commissioner Cal Performances. Fortunately, patterns in music and science pair well, so that brought relief.

I researched a wide array of subjects for over a year, including the life cycle, carbon reclamation, environmental protection, animal communication, starling murmurations, our last universal common ancestor (LUCA), black-hole collisions and the subatomic realm. I also listened with gusto to the recordings of the Takács Quartet, savouring especially the group’s performances of works by Brahms, Coleridge-Taylor and Florence Price. It became clear that everything in nature exists as part of a vast tapestry of systems. The layering of these systems reveals a common flow to our existence that ties us to the initial outburst of energy and matter at the beginning of time.

The idea of ‘flow’ can be expressed mathematically, psychologically, physically, visually and, now, via string quartet. There is a Sanskrit word ‘prana’ which fits this concept—‘pra’ meaning ‘first’ and ‘na’ meaning ‘energy’. It is infinite and all-pervasive through both animate and inanimate realms. For this piece, the quartet is asked to connect to our common flow through ‘pranayama’, where ‘ayama’ is the expansion of ‘prana’, practised through breath control. The quartet also relates to this idea of an initial energy through the concepts of ‘Om’, which can be understood as synonymous with ‘pranava’ (‘foresound’), and ‘Omkara’ (‘Om maker’)—the first source of sound and the act of creation. ‘Om’ in the string quartet mostly appears on an upbeat as a widely vibrated pizzicato glissando in the cello, imitating the vibrational birthing energy of our universe.

Flow starts like gas seeping from an infinitely full balloon about to pop. Then, as matter inflates space, climactic material is presented almost immediately before abruptly burning out for the universal dark ages. The ‘Prelude’ examines ‘B’ing/BE’ing’ melodically and harmonically through moments of ‘pranayama’ (the transformative power of breath) and ends with a trailing ‘Om’.

The ‘Lento’ brings further cooling and space in a chorale that is underpinned by an octave B-centric pedal. Motifs from the ‘Prelude’ are given room to develop. The bass line descends, expanding the quartet’s range, while microtonal slow glissandi hold the sound together.

The ‘Quark scherzo’ explores our fundamentally playful selves. The subatomic realm waltzes ‘up’ and ‘down’ in packets of three while we embrace ideas of solidity and ego. The trio provides no break and instead intones a ballad over cello triplets. The movement ends in a virtuosic flurry.

The ‘Finale’ settles into a stylized recitative where the three lower strings play solo before coming together to complement a soaring treble voice. Flowing triplets morph into a Classical Indian dadra tal rhythm (of six even beats) in the bass line while upper strings bow the sides of their instruments to simulate cosmic microwave background (CMB) radiation. Following this, there is a return to the ‘Prelude’ opening, then a slingshot into ecstatic starling murmurations. Lower strings continue unrelentingly while violin lines chase one another, instantaneously turning and merging. They eventually land, and the sky calms through a long D overtone glissando. A retreating tremolo reveals a melody played first by the viola, then shared across the ensemble before culminating in a joyful conclusion.

Nokuthula Ngwenyama © 2024

For the first time in the fifty-year history of the Takács Quartet, a composer has asked us to ‘groove’. So far it’s not going well. To attempt to groove is to confront all things I am not—hip, easy-going, chilled out. The instruction occurs in the third movement of Flow, a piece written for us by Nokuthula Ngwenyama. Born in Los Angeles of Zimbabwean-Japanese parentage, Thula (‘Too-lah’), as she is also known, is a violist with whom our second violinist Harumi first played chamber music more than twenty years ago. In 2021 Harumi asked Thula if she might be willing to write a piece for the Takács Quartet, inspired in some way by the natural world. Now she has come to our home base at the University of Colorado in Boulder to help us prepare Flow.

Thula is a lively, encouraging presence in our rehearsal room. Nonetheless I am nervous: I don’t want to let the composer down or to make an idiot of myself. At our first attempt to groove, I imagine myself slightly drunk, playing with less focus to my sound and trying to bend the rhythm in a flailing attempt to sound cool. Thula smiles but looks a bit puzzled, wondering how best to guide us. ‘You could try it faster, with more rhythm.’ Now we sound uptight, brittle. ‘Can you play it with that forward direction but with a relaxed vibe?’ Relaxed vibe—not a personality trait I can easily assume. But Thula’s advice and the chance to repeat this section are helpful. ‘Thanks, that’s better’, she says. ‘I’ll cross out “groove” and replace it with “casual, relaxed flow”.’

However precise the notations, a musical score is only the starting point for interpreting a piece of music. We are fortunate that we can ask Thula how she would like us to play the opening section—music conceived to evoke the beginning of the universe. The score specifies that we should place our bows behind the bridge, instead of in their default position between bridge and fingerboard. I have not practised this enough: behind the bridge the strings slope downwards and my bow slips off the strings altogether, hitting me on the nose. We ask Thula to demonstrate the sort of sound she would like—with flat bow hair she gets a secure contact on her viola and then digs in with a grittier sound as the volume increases.

It must be exciting but stressful for a composer to hear a piece realized for the first time. Thula is more patient than Beethoven when he conducted the first private performance of his late string quartet Opus 132, at one point interrupting the flow to grab the second violinist’s instrument and correct an erroneous bow stroke. As a COVID precaution Thula sits outside, listening to us through a screen door, leaning forward better to hear us against birdsong and the roar of trucks down a nearby highway. In the section ‘Starling murmurations’ (track 7, 4'27) she suggests that to imitate thousands of migrating birds we could aim for a generous wash of sound, not playing each note so insistently. My playing is too literal, earthbound exactly where the music should soar.

Over the next months we play for Thula several times, usually onstage before the first performances of Flow. She has a keen ear for details of balance and articulation but as we become more familiar with the piece we have space to think more about the overall character of the music. Rehearsing string quartets is necessarily serious work. But Flow reminds us that we are also ‘playing’ music. Against the horrifying spectre of climate change Flow creates a sometimes defiant spirit of playfulness and wonder, evoking both the beauty and fragility of nature. As we get to know Thula, the hopeful spirit of Flow emerges with more clarity: she seems to suggest that we could do better, in the ways that we treat both the natural world and each other—at least we might try.

During a post-concert reception at John Hopkins University, a shocked audience member approaches me: ‘My husband usually rolls his eyes up at any contemporary music. Today at intermission he said that he would rather hear Flow again in the second half than listen to the Beethoven quartet. I think Flow has converted him to modern music!’

The easily offended Beethoven would, however, have understood the idea of repeating a new piece in a concert. After the unsuccessful first unveiling of his string quartet Opus 127, a subsequent concert featured the piece performed twice, with audiences and performers alike given another chance to engage with the unfamiliar work. That night in Baltimore we did not change the programme but enthusiastic audience reactions and our own experiences have encouraged us to record the piece. Thanks to our new album on Hyperion, you can now listen to Flow as many times as you like.

And, who knows, perhaps through the process of performing and recording Flow, the Takács Quartet is after all learning how to groove.

Edward Dusinberre © 2024