Music for ob., sax., 2 perc., pno., db., tape.
Performed by Workers Union conducted by Ben Oliver at Guildhall School of Music and Drama, 14 July 2011
Text and pre-recorded voice by Sam Grinsell.

For several years I consciously avoided writing concert music designed to work in combination with other artistic disciplines. Recently I began to think about turning again to this kind of composition, and particularly about the prospect of working with music and verbal language. Coincidentally, the invitation to write for the Workers Union ensemble arrived around the same time that I came across the poem Night Walking by Sam Grinsell. I was struck by the temporal stasis implied by this text; although the protagonist recounts observations made over a short period of time, the language used implies a frozen time, a crystallisation of the scene that permits endless admiration of its beauty. The poem contemplatively describes a conurbation, bristling with artificiality, nestled beneath the vast semi-darkness of the late dusk sky. Particularly striking to me is the emphasis placed on different types of light. I have long been fascinated by the interaction of the artificial and natural light and the way this influences our perception of the world around us. Perhaps the greatest affect is on our sense of space. Here again Sam’s text is particularly evocative, giving a sense of endless, perhaps lonely spaciousness that complements the feeling of suspended time.

Night Walking is not intended as programmatic music. My aim was to manifest in sound a kind of colouristic ballet comparable to the interplay of artificial and natural light observable as the sun is imprisoned by the horizon, the shifting shadows that result, and our subsequent perception of shape and space. The music does not describe visual phenomena. Rather, the spoken word and musical sounds work independently to give the impression of gradual shifts seemingly held in a temporary stasis.

Come with me / We will explore the solitary night / The endless twilight at the edge of town / Where only drunks and madmen care to tread / And which we are / We can decide.