Composer / Performer  Philip  Glass

Two conversations with Bruce Duffie


Born on January 31, 1937 in Baltimore, Maryland, Philip Glass worked in his father's radio store and discovered music listening to the offbeat Western classical records customers didn't seem to want. He studied the violin and flute, and obtained early admission to the University of Chicago. After graduating in mathematics and philosophy, he went to New York's Julliard school, drove a cab, and studied composition with Darius Milhaud and others.

At 23, he moved to Paris to study under the legendary Nadia Boulanger, who taught almost all of the major Western classical composers of the 20th century. While there, he discovered Indian classical music while transcribing the works of Ravi Shankar into Western musical notation for a French filmmaker. A creative turning point, Glass researched non-Western music in India and parts of Africa, and applied the techniques to his own composition.

Back in the United States, Glass spent the late 1960s and early 1970s driving a taxi cab in New York and creating a major collection of new music. In 1976, his landmark opera "Einstein on the Beach" was staged by Robert Wilson to a baffling variety of reviews. His compositions were so avant-garde that he had to form the Philip Glass Ensemble [shown in photo below] to give them a venue for performance. Although called a minimalist by the Western classical mainstream, he denies this categorization. His major works include opera, theater pieces, dance, and song.


His work in film, beginning with Koyaanisqatsi (1982), gave filmmakers such as Godfrey Reggio and Errol Morris a new venue of expression through the documentary form. His many recordings have also widened his audience. He was commissioned by the Metropolitan Opera to compose "The Voyage" for the Columbus quinquacentennial in 1992. In 1996, he composed original music for the Atlanta Olympic Games, which, perhaps, made Glass almost mainstream. Glass remains one of the most important American composers. His music is distinctive, haunting, and evocative. Either performed by itself or in collaboration with other media, his compositions move the listener to unexplored places. More recently, a major reexamination of Glass's oeuvre has led him to be labeled the Last Romantic by the musical press.

-- IMDb Mini Biography by Jim Sadur [text only - photo from another source
--  Throughout this page, names which are links refer to my Interviwes elsewhere on this website.  BD 

The first time we met was in February of 1982.  We had only a few minutes during the sound-check for that evening
’s performance at the University of Chicago.  The second conversation was held five and a half years later at Lyric Opera of Chicago, when we had a bit more time.

Here is the first encounter . . . . . . . . .

Bruce Duffie:    You’ve been called a minimalist.  Do you like that label, or no?

Philip Glass:    I never liked those labels, but it’s a way for media people and journalists to conveniently talk about a large group of work which has certain superficial similarities.  In my opinion it’s not a very good description, but it’s the one that’s been bandied around a bit.

BD:    Would you rather think of yourself as getting the maximum use out of each fragment?

PG:    I think so.  That’s one way to look at it, but I don’t think composers think of themselves as labels, anyway.  You don’t think of yourself as a guy with a beard.  Any descriptions of that kind are limiting.  On the other hand, I understand that there is some need for people to relate groups of musicians in some way or another.  I just don’t think that’s a good label, and I don’t have a better one, but nevertheless, that’s the one we got stuck with.

glass BD:    Your most recent opera is Satyagraha?

PG:    Yes.

BD:    Let
’s pretend I’m the manager of the Met, and I’ve contracted to do your opera, and I’ve got Pavarotti as Gandhi.

PG:    [Sarcastically]  That’ll be the day.

BD:    Why wouldn’t that work... or is there any possibility that it would work? 

PG:    From a musical point of view?

BD:    Yes.  I’m coming to you with the contract.

PG:    You got enough money to pay this guy?

BD:    The contracts are all in and since it
’s my fantasy, Pavarotti has agreed to do it.

PG:    I don’t see why he can’t do it.  He’s a little big for the part, but I see your point.  That’s the problem with historical persons.  With Einstein on the Beach we could dress up a person to look like Einstein with the flowing white hair, the violin, the glasses.  It’s almost a caricature image of Einstein.  It’s easy to picture him.  Gandhi, too, was a man we can recognize rather easily.  I think we would have trouble with a real large tenor.  I don’t think we could cast someone who is quite that large.  Doug Perry, who does the part, is not a skinny guy, but he was able to communicate it partly because of his acting style and his singing style, and the conviction that he had in the part.  That does count for a lot.  [Laughs]  Usually it’s about the large sopranos that have to sing the parts of very dainty young women, but it can be done.

BD:    I was wondering about dropping typical opera singers into your works.

PG:    Meaning is the problem the physical casting or is it the mental problem?  With the physical casting you just look at a lot of people and you get the best voice who can approximate the role.  In this case we preferred a skinny, small Indian tenor, but there was not one available, so we settled for a medium-sized American tenor, who was excellent.  There may be mental problems apart from these physical problems, but those are questions of adjustment.  With the company that did the opening performances of Satyagraha in Holland, we had people who had done a lot of opera singing.  Dick Gill was the bass, Claudia Cummings was soprano, Doug Perry — all these people are itinerant opera singers.  The first week or so was a period of adjustment for them, adjusting to the kind of parts they were doing, and trying to figure out how they would be that person on the stage.  It was a problem that ultimately most of our company solved extremely well.  Bruce Hall was our baritone.  Iris Hiskey and Beverly Morgan were two other singers, but Iris, of course, had worked with me before with the ensemble, so she was very attuned to the music.

BD:    Are you coming to more traditional kinds of settings, or are we coming to more Philip Glass?

PG:    It depends what you look at.  This does not look like La Bohème and it never will.  I don’t take plays and set them to music, and I probably never will.  It’s a difficult question for me to answer, because I have no problem with this music or this kind of setting.  I’m aware that people coming out of a more traditional opera background find them a little unusual, and I can sympathize with the problems that they may have.  For some people, it violates their belief system so totally that they can’t accept it at all.  For other people, they see that it’s not that different and it’s just a question of adjustment.

BD:    It’s something new?

PG:    It’s something new, but it’s still part of the same tradition.

BD:    Is it really something new, or is it just something old that’s grown?

PG:    It’s hard to say.  There is something radically different, which I hinted at when I said that I don’t take plays and set them to music.  My experience in the theater comes out of a contemporary theater, starting with people like the Living Theater, or the Performance Group, or Meredith Monk, or Bob Wilson.  This is a theater that doesn’t have literary roots.  This is a theater that was created by dancers, by painters, by actors, by directors.

BD:    I understand with Einstein the music was set down first before the text?

PG:    Yes.  That often happens with the way I work.  But these were the people that I worked with as a young composer when I wrote a lot of music for the theater.  I mostly worked with a group called The Novel Minds.  When I began to do operas, it never occurred to me to find a playwright.  I didn’t look for a librettist.  I started again with an idea, the way I’d always worked, and I built around the image or the person or the idea of the opera.  That’s how Wilson and I worked on Einstein, and that’s how I worked on Satyagraha with Israel and DeJong and Riedel, the collaborators on that piece.  The new opera, Ahknaten, which is the eighteenth Dynasty of Pharaoh, was commissioned by the Stuttgart Opera, by the way.

BD:    Is Davies going to conduct it?

glass PG:    Yes.  That’ll be in ‘84 in Stuttgart, and I think it’ll be at the Houston Grand Opera in this country.  We’re talking about it.  They’re very interested in doing it, and we’re interested in them doing it.  The point about these operas is that I began with personages, with characters, and I built around those characters, taking events from their lives.  So I didn’t really work in a conventional way.  There are plenty of people interested in this kind of opera.  The two operas that I’ve written
Einstein and SatyagrahaI could say that neither opera has ever played to an empty seat.  They’ve always been sold out.  That’s quite an accomplishment!  [Indeed, these works are universally known enough for Peter Schickele (as PDQ Bach) to have written a parody called Einstein on the Fritz.]

BD:    You like calling them operas.  Is that the right label for them?

PG:    I would like to call them
music theater, but the reason we call them opera is that way you know right away that we need an opera house to put it on.  This is the main thing.  With Einstein it didn’t matter whether you called it a multi-media piece, or a theater piece, or whatever, but we needed an opera house.  We needed a pit, we needed fly space, we needed wing space, we needed pipes, we needed lights.  We needed all the paraphernalia of an opera house.  Now you can call it what you want to, but it’s got to be an opera house because that’s the place that’s built for that kind of piece.  Starting from that point of view, it didn’t really matter that it was called an opera, but a lot of opera people came to see it because it was in a opera house, and one of those people was Hans de Roo, who is the director of the Netherlands Opera, who commissioned the next opera.  I didn’t intend ever to write operas in a certain way, but because of the physical demands of the piece, again, I need singers, I need orchestra people, I need choruses...

BD:    Do you need operatic voices?

PG:    Now, I do.  With Satyagraha I can’t imagine people less qualified than Doug Perry, Richard Gill, or Claudia, or Iris, or any of the people I work with.  It’s extremely demanding.  It takes training and style and acting.  At this point I don’t care what it is called.  You don’t have to call it an opera, but you need opera singers and an opera house, and I need the kind of people that work on operas.  You can call it something else if you want...

BD:    Should Satyagraha ever be translated?

PG:    No, it shouldn’t.  The language that it’s written in, Sanskrit, is one of the beautiful vocal languages of the world.  It’s currently a common language in the classical music of South India. 

BD:    Would it make a different impact if it was performed, say, in Bombay or New Delhi, where they understood every word?

PG:    They want to produce it there, as a matter of fact.  That’ll be interesting.  I did take a tape of it down to South India, and I played it to some friends who are members of the Kathakali Theatre there.  They liked it very much.  They were very entranced by it, but I picked that language for its sound content.  I did not want to translate it into Dutch, which would have been the language of the premiere country.  Then again, I think it would have been less beautiful in English.  The impact of the opera anyway is not primarily literary or in the language.

BD:    It’s a mood that you create?

PG:    I wouldn’t say that.  It just happens to be non-verbal.  That doesn’t mean that it’s mystical particularly.  Of course, it includes that, but it can still be quite specific.  Take for example a scene in Satyagraha where people are burning their registration cards, and they’re singing something about that.  We print it in the program book, just as you might have to read a synopsis of Don Carlo between the scenes.  It’s preferable that you read a translation of some of the things so you know what they’re singing, but as in Don Carlo, you don’t really have to.  You may not miss that much if you don’t hear each word, but it depends to what degree you take your interest.  Some people will read the program book.  Some people will read up on the subject matter before.  Many people, when they go to the opera, will read the history of the productions before they go.  With this Gandhi opera, there will be people that will review or will read Gandhi’s works and think about it.  It’s really up to the individual spectator how involved he gets.

BD:    It should be a total immersion then, really?

PG:    I feel that my colleagues and I have made it possible to get involved with the material on several levels, on quite a few levels, including a historical narrative level.  That may not be the way that you may see it, but it’s potentially there.  Many people that go to Così fan tutte have no idea what it is.  They just like the music or they like the costumes or whatever.  But there will be people that will know not only every story, but the different stagings of it and different pacings that the conductors might take.  So it’s not a requirement of the audience, but what I have done is made it possible to get involved in it in various ways.

BD:    Let me draw one parallel and see how you like it.  Gandhi and political non-violence; Philip Glass and musical non-violence.

PG:    [With a big smile]  Oh, really?  Oh, how nice.  Do you think that’s true?

BD:    Is it?

PG:    I don’t know.  One would think that there would not be violence associated with music, but in 1979 we were doing a work called Dance, and someone ran down from the audience and began throwing eggs at us.  People have screamed and yelled and run out.  I remember in 1969, a man came up and began banging on the piano while I was playing, which led to a general performer-audience confrontation, which finally led to a discussion in a very European manner.  After the fight, they wanted a discussion about the fight.  That was quite a while ago.  I’m always surprised when someone freaks, out, yells and screams and throws things at us.

BD:    You haven’t come to expect that?

PG:    I never expect it.  It does happen from time to time.  It’s not the intention or the concept of the music to generate that.  Some reactions are a little excessive.


BD:    Do you consider yourself primarily a composer, or primarily a performer?

PG:    Primarily a composer who has used the persona of a performer to bring my music to the public.  I performed in Einstein, but with the new operas I don’t perform at all.  I am on tour now with this ensemble, and I still find the best way for me to bring my music around is to go out and play it.

BD:    When you give your opera to somebody else to produce and direct and conduct, do you feel safe handing it over to others?

PG:    I feel very safe with Dennis Russell Davies.  I feel very safe with Christopher Keene.  I guess it depends on who the people are.  If I know the people, I feel I can entrust it to them.  I would be reluctant to just send it off.  I’m the publisher of the work, so it’s not generally available.  It has to be requested from us.

BD:    That way you have more control over it?

PG:    Yes.  If I don’t think that people can do it, why go through it?

BD:    So, you would rather not have it done than done poorly?

PG:    If I were convinced there was no chance it could be done well, I wouldn’t let it be done.  On the other hand, if someone had a fair chance of doing it and needed some help, or if they had the enthusiasm and the ability and the means, I certainly would encourage them to do it.  But mostly I think people sort that out for themselves.  Someone who couldn’t handle it probably wouldn’t want to do it.  But as long as I am in control of that part of the music, I can at least help make that decision.

BD:    Thank you very much.  You were very gracious to take time out of your day for this chat.

PG:    Thank you.  I’m sorry it was rushed.

  --  --  --  We now move ahead five and a half years to July of 1987.  Amazingly, he remembered me from our previous chat . . . . . . . . .

PG:    Do you still have that all-night program, or whatever it was?

BD:    I’m still working evenings and overnight, yes.

PG:    I don’t know how you guys do it.

BD:    Really?  Why?

PG:    It’s just that my schedule is I work early in the morning and by ten o’clock I can hardly stay awake.

BD:    Do you get a lot of work done early in the morning?

PG:    Yes.  I do it that way because the phone doesn’t start ringing until about ten or eleven, and my workday is almost done by then.

BD:    [Settling into the conversation]  Where is music going today?

PG:    [Laughs]  Well, if you’re asking me, I’ll say it’s going in the theater.  But I would say the style of the arts today has been informed more by theatrical collaboration than anything else.  In the sixties and seventies we used to say that it was the art world that made the rules, in a way, with people like Andy Warhol and Jasper Johns.  They set the tone for a lot of the other arts.  Whether it be dance or music, it just spilled over into that.  But it seems to me that in the eighties, and it’s going into the nineties now because we’re practically there, it’s shifted away from the visual arts and into the performing arts.  Partly the whole emergence of what we call the performance artist is a sign of that.

BD:    Are you part of this shift, and if so, are you pushing this shift or are you reacting to this shift?

PG:    I’m all of those things.  I’m not separate from it, and I’m not exactly all.  It was my generation of people who made this happen.  On the other hand, I was both acting and reacting at the same time.  That’s what a community does.  The strength of an artistic community is that it incorporates all those things, that we don’t have one person, or not just simply one person, being the contributing element.  It’s using a matrix and a network of things that are happening.

BD:    Are you comfortable being part of this big matrix?

PG:    Absolutely.  Yes.  In fact, I find it somewhat reassuring, to tell you the truth.  The people who I consider my contemporaries may not all be composers.  They could be dancers or young directors or other composers like Glenn Branca or Scott Johnson, people that are younger than me.  I consciously try to distance myself a little bit from the center, where I’m always working from, that very intense, focused place that we live our lives in, and which causes us very often to lose perspective about what we’re doing.  So I practice slightly moving away from it and looking at what’s going on around me, and I find that these cultural events we’re talking about are happening in a very interconnected way.  Whether it’s a man like Bob Wilson creating pieces, or young dancers or performers or composers, very few of us are actually working alone.  In fact, I think no one is really working totally alone.

BD:    Do you feel that all of the influences in your life have contributed to your style of music, or is that almost incidental?

PG:    Well, style is an interesting question.  For one thing, we can talk about style in terms of the style of the times, and we were just talking about that
the performing arts and these general cultural events that seem to take place.  We see it in popular culture very clearly as trends and fashions, and we see it in what we call a more serious culture in terms of more long-term things.  That’s style seen in a social/artistic context.  There’s another thing, which we call personal style, which has to do with your language.  When a poet writes in a certain way, or when a musician chooses his predilection to work in a particular harmonic language, that’s the difference between, say, someone like a Milton Babbitt or an Elliott Carter.  They’re very different.  We hear them differently, and yet people generally say they write in the same style, but they don’t.  They have personal styles.  When we start talking about personal styles, then we’re talking about something very, very interesting.


BD:    Yet your style is so outwardly different from that of these two composers you just mentioned.

PG:    Yes.  I’ve purposely picked people who didn’t sound like me.  I could have picked people that did sound like me, but my point is that what we mean by personal style is something which, when we have it — and not everyone does — refers almost to a special case of technical usage of musical language.  So it’s quite a definite and particular thing.

BD:    Do you expect the audience that comes to hear your pieces to understand all of this technical language?

PG:    Of course not.  But then again, when they get on the highway to drive home, they don’t know how the roads were engineered either, but they lead them to their destination nonetheless.  When I get on a plane, I don’t know how the guy’s running the plane, but I arrive in good condition.  [Both laugh]  What we require of our colleagues
and by that I include not only the people that write music and play music, but the people that talk about music, and people that write about music, like yourself — we expect to have a more technical understanding, of course.  But for the audience, nothing more is required than what we’ve always asked of an audience, which is to come with an an open heart and an open mind.

BD:    Do you feel your music is a road to something?

PG:    That is a very leading question, isn’t it, because then I would have to tell you what that would be.  I don’t think of it particularly that way.  However, a work like Satyagraha has a program.  It has an aesthetic intention which you hear in the music.  It has an argument that takes place on the level of a sexual relationship and social justice, and it has another argument that takes place on the level of reconciling the internal and external forces that every human being has to exist with.  So there are different levels that it happens on.  To the extent that it becomes only one thing, it would be just a kind of a propaganda.  If the opera was just about civil disobedience, then we’re not doing very much
not that it isn’t an interesting subject...

BD:    Then you’re not doing enough?

PG:    I’m not doing enough if we’re putting it on the stage.

BD:    Have you purposely tailored your music at all to fit these premises that are on the stage?

PG:    I think so.  I do think so.  Though I don’t follow the literal conventions of opera, there are certain conventions that I do follow.  For example, it’s a work done in a large theater for a somewhere upwards of three thousand people.  Now that’s not the moment when I have chosen to do a rather abstract piece.  There are composers that have worked that way.  Lulu, which is also being done this year, is a very abstract piece.  It’s also a very passionate piece, so it balances itself out in a different way.  I think of opera as a very public affair.  If I didn’t think that, I wouldn’t be a theater composer, so I have no problem addressing myself to it in that way.  I’ve also picked social issues in the way we’ve talked about already in this brief conversation.  I’ve picked things that address themselves to broad social issues.  I’ve also done it in an aesthetic way that can address itself to a large number of people.  So there’s no doubt that Satyagraha, as an opera, is meant to be perceived that way.  But then again, look at my subject.  Who lived a more public life than Gandhi?  There’s a certain appropriateness to taking a subject like that and presenting it in that way.

BD:    You keep calling the work an opera.  Are you happy with that label?

PG:    Well, in fact I’m not.  Thank you for reminding me that I’m not.  Music-theater is a better word.  The difficulty with opera is that we don’t want to mislead people [laughs], though I suppose we will do that anyway.  This is not an opera in the tradition of repertory opera.  It’s not a tragic or comic or romantic story that you might find in a Puccini, a Verdi, or Wagnerian opera.  No, let’s exclude Wagner for a minute because he tends to be more conceptual in certain ways.  My work is certainly not of that particular Italian tradition.  The kind of work that I do, as it appears on the operatic stage and as it appears in a repertory company like the Chicago Lyric Opera, really finds its roots in the world of contemporary experimental theater.  If we look at it that way, we can see why it looks different and where the differences derive from.  The people that were important to me as a young man of twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven
when I began working in the theaterwere the people like the Living Theater, the Mabou Mines Theater, Bob Wilson’s Theater, Richard Forman, Meredith Monk.  In the European tradition it would have been Berthold Brecht and Sam Beckett.  I wasn’t looking towards the theater of naturalism and realism.  I was already thinking about experimental theater.  I took my practice of experimental theater and began working with theater companies at around 1965.  I began working as the music director of one of these companies, the Mabou Mines, in 1968, and have been working with that company ever since.  I still work with that company.  At the point that I moved from writing experimental music for the theater to writing large-scale music pieces for the stage, I was really bringing with me a point of view and an aesthetic that was informed by the world of contemporary experimental theater.  I just mentioned some of the names, but in contemporary European terms it would be people like Peter Brook and Grotowski, and all these people that we in the theater and we know a great deal about, but who have until very recently not played a great role in the development of contemporary opera.

BD:    You use the term
experimental theater.  In science, you experiment to find an answer.  In theater, what are you experimenting for?

PG:    Experimental in that sense, simply means it was non-narrative.  We use theater as a narrative story, and it simply wasn’t approached that way.  These companies that I work with rarely took a play and set it on the stage, and yet they’re a theater company.  So how do they do it?  Well, they sometimes began with the title, an image.  Einstein on the Beach began as a title.  We had no story.  We ended up with a libretto, but the libretto was the result of our work and not the origin of our work.  We are talking about people that consider the process of making the work, and the making of the work, identical.

BD:    Are you very concerned with the process, or are you more concerned with the end product, the way it looks on the stage?

glass PG:    Even though I’m not doing music like Einstein or Satyagraha right now, I am very tuned in to the actual process of making a piece.  Here’s another difference between music theater and traditional opera.  These kinds of works tend to be composite works that usually involve joint authorship.  Now, Verdi, Puccini, Mozart or whoever, no one stated that they hired a librettist or engaged a writer.  Nevertheless, those were the visions of those particular people.  No so true of Da Ponte, perhaps.  It’s arguable, but when we think of a Verdi opera, it’s the vision of that man.  When Bob Wilson and I did Einstein on the Beach, it was a shared work.  I just finished a work with Doris Lessing called Making the Representative for Planet 8, based on one of her books.  We worked with a designer, Eiko Ishioka.  We worked through the process of making the work.  When I did Satyagraha, I worked with Bob Israel, whose designs we’re seeing here in Chicago.  David Pountney was involved in those early stages in the work, and the creation of the work — we use that word — was really result of our working together.  In a way, I became rather like the leader of a creative team with associated authors.  That’s really the way it works, and this is a very different way of working.

BD:    Whose name should go on top, or should they all be in a line?

PG:    Sometimes it’s different.  It depends and those things you have to decide.  In the case of Einstein on the Beach, Bob Wilson and I have our names together.  That’s because we conceived the work together.  In the case of Satyagraha, my name goes on top because I had the idea to do an opera about Gandhi.  I asked some people to help me work on it, but it was always acknowledged that I had principal authorship, and they had a secondary authorship, though their names appear in the work.

BD:    You’re the chairman of the board on that?

PG:    In that case, yes.  One of the interesting things about the way we work in theater today is that these rules can change, and depending on the nature of the working relationship of the authors, we find the authorship will be different.  There are even works in which I’ve done pieces for collaborators whose names I don’t know.  For example, I did a piece called A Madrigal Opera.  I got the idea of writing a piece of music that could be staged dramatically in different ways, very much the way a dance choreographer would create a dance work on a piece of music.  So I wrote a dramatic theater work in which the subject was not specified, and so far three different directors have supplied stories and scenery.  This piece has had several other names.  It’s sometimes called The Panther, but the original person I worked with
a guy named Rob Malasch with whom I also did The Photographer — had another story that was based on memories of his childhood.  So in other words, I actually did a piece in which I invited people to come in and complete the piece.  That’s another way of working.  What I’m suggesting, talking about it this way, is that these forms of collaborations are much more varied today than one would have thought possible maybe thirty or forty years ago, and when you say, “Is it really opera?” in a certain way Satyagraha is more like an opera than, say, The Photographer, which doesn’t even use an orchestra.  Satyagraha requires a pit orchestra, a chorus, soloists, etc.

BD:    A pit orchestra of traditional instruments or electronic instruments?

PG:    Traditional instruments with one exception — one electric organ.  In order to do Satyagraha you need a proscenium stage; you need fly space and wing space.  You can do it anywhere you want to, but the best place to get it done is in an opera house.  They’re the people that are set up to do it.  Something like The A Madrigal Opera could be done in a small theater, it could be done in a garage, it could be done in the open.  So it’s not so defined.  Within the range of theater works I have done, some of them do fit more within the general rubric of opera, and so we end up using that word.

BD:    You’re continuing to talk about being a theater composer, so is this where your life is going?  Are you eliminating concert works?

PG:    As a matter of fact, I do say that.  I was talking to Virgil Thomson very recently.  We were together for something to do with his birthday.  He was ninety this year, and he is one of our great theater composers.  We were sitting around and talking, and he turned to me and said, “People like ourselves, we’re really theater people.”  I was very flattered that he included me as,
‘people like ourselves.  He said, “We might do an occasional concert piece as a kind of exercise in abstract music, but really we work in the theater.”  I felt that he had hit upon something which was very accurate.  On the other hand, this year I’ve done a violin concerto, which was performed with American Composers Orchestra in New York and will be performed by some other orchestras this year.  I’ve just finished a piece for Dohnányi and the Cleveland Orchestra which is a concert work about twenty-four minutes long, and I am doing a choral piece next year for Atlanta and Robert Shaw which is basically a concert piece.  It’s a symphonic work.

*     *     *     *     *

BD:    You get commissions all the time.  How do you decide which commissions you’ll accept and which commissions you’ll turn down?

PG:    That’s a problem because the real problem is the time.  I’m interested in so many things.  I’m kind of a pushover in a certain way.  I can be talked into doing anything, really, but I don’t really have the time to do it.  For example, I got a letter just the other day from London.  There is group there that has a steel band and they wanted to know if I would write a piece for them.  What a wonderful idea!  The person said in the letter that, “We’ve been thinking about your music.  We think that your music would be extremely appropriate for our instrumentation.  Would you consider doing it?”  So I put the letter aside and I’ve got to answer it, and I’m thinking, what a nice thing to do!   What I’d like to do is little pieces between these large works.  It’s refreshing in a way, and the change of scale from large piece to small piece in itself is kind of refreshing.

BD:    Do you get ideas when you’re doing a large piece that you know you can maybe use in a small piece?

glass PG:    No, I don’t usually work that way.  Ideas do turn up all over the place, so you work on one piece and like something it stays with you.  For days I was playing through The Representative recently because I was about to have the piano-vocal score reproduced, and I wanted to check and make sure I had all the words right.  During that time I realized that there were elements in it that were in Songs From Liquid Days.  I said to myself, “Oh, my goodness!  I took that and I put it there.”  Either I had forgotten or hadn’t noticed
not that everyone would notice that; it’s not a theme, exactly.  It’s a certain treatment of harmonic material that had come up in both pieces, so that does happen.  But I can’t say that I was so aware of it at the time.

BD:    When you’re writing a piece, you write it all out and you go back and tinker with it a little bit.  How do you know when you’ve finished tinkering with it, and you’re ready to launch it on the world?

PG:    That’s always a good question
when do you know you’re done?  There is a story about Pissarro, that as an old man he would go back to the museums where his paintings were, and he would touch them up.  [Both laugh]  He was regularly chased out of the museum by the guards who were protecting the works.  I guess they thought it was just a crazy old man with paint.  Actually, he was going back to touch up his work, so when do you stop?

BD:    [With a gentle nudge]  Should museum guards or opera conductors protect works from the composers?

PG:    Good question!  I’ve been with some conductors, like Dennis Russell Davies, whom I like very much and who will be conducting here this year.  We were discussing Akhenaten and I said, “You know, Dennis, I’m thinking of cutting out this repeat here,” and he said, “But Philip, it says that here in the score.”  He defended the score!  I was kind of surprised in a way, but conductors do sometimes have a tendency to do that.  On the other hand, they can also suggest changes, and there are those they might not tell you about.  If you catch them you say, “Wait a second.  Wasn’t there another part of that passage?  I seem to hear something...”  We don’t remember everything we wrote.

BD:    How much leeway do you allow the conductor to interpret?

PG:    The thing that makes theater interesting is that the pieces do continue to change.  I’m not talking about whole revisions, but one of the things that’s so disappointing about working in film is that on the day you mix your film, you’re done.  It never gets done again, and there’s something I find a bit strange about the fact that the piece can never change.

BD:    You find the same thing on recordings?

PG:    To a degree, though recordings are a resolution of a piece in a particular medium and way.  I don’t mind that so much.  I remember with Einstein on the Beach¸ when we did the revival in 1984, I went back and I had to write new material for the transitions, because though Bob Wilson was redoing it, the timings had changed in between certain of those scenes, and suddenly we had two minutes of an empty place that wasn’t in the music.  So I had to write new music.  I wrote that music out and I added as an appendix to the score, and I wrote on the bottom “To be used when needed.”

BD:    In that particular case, did you try to go back into your old style and write it to fit in?

PG:    Oh, sure, I could do that.  Absolutely.  It would have been silly for me to write it in the style of something like Songs from Liquid Days.  It would have sounded odd.  It’s no problem to do that.  Now, when I conceive or think about a new work, I would never do it in a way that I had done ten years ago, but going back to Einstein and coming to a transitional section that had to be supplied, I simply looked at the music before and at the music that came after, and I saw what went in between.  It wasn’t hard to do.  Who knows whether it will be present in the next production?  Bob or another director would have made the scene a bit shorter, so these things do happen.  The thing about a theater composer is that you learn to be flexible, the way a new director comes in to do a work.  If he has an authentic contribution to make and we have some trust in him, I feel that the best thing to do is to go listen.

BD:    Do you really have to trust your collaborators?

PG:    You try to pick them, and sometimes you make mistakes and sometimes you don’t.  You win a few and you lose a few.  It’s not a cut and dried affair.  There are no rules.

*     *     *     *     *

BD:    Are you at all surprised by the immense popularity of your music?

glass PG:    You know, in a way, I’m a little bit [mumbles a bit of wordless exasperation] about it in a certain way, though that may sound surprising.  I do a lot of concerts and I talk to a lot of people, but I don’t see myself the way the world sees me.  I see much more of a continuity between myself and the person that began with an ensemble in 1968 doing six or eight concerts a year for a handful of people.  I experience my life as a continuity in that way, so it creeps up on you, in a way.  For example, on my schedule this year I can’t help but notice that I’m in a lot of different countries, going to a lot of different openings of a lot of different operas.  Obviously, something has happened.  I don’t have as much time as I used to.

BD:    Does that please you?

PG:    Of course.  It seems an odd way to put it, but I don’t take it personally.  For example, Satyagraha is being revived here in Chicago, and a few changes will be made.  David Bellamy has thought about it and has made some very interesting additions to the piece, but basically it’s the original piece.  But I’m very pleased to see this opera being done again.  I can almost say that I’m pleased for the opera, as if the opera had a life of its own.  Artists often talk about their work that way.  It had been in production somewhere almost continuously for five years from 1980 and 1984, either in Germany or Holland or America.  Then for a few years it wasn’t around, and now I see it starting again.  It goes here and we expect it to go to Seattle next year, then it’ll go back to the New York City Opera.  There is a company in Argentina that’s interested in it, and I’ve had a letter from the Moscow Art Theater.  I don’t know if they would want it.  Actually the Moscow Art Theater asked me if I had a piece for them, and I replied the only piece I wanted them to do was Satyagraha.  I thought that would be interesting.  Gandhi is the first refusenik of all time.  I thought if they could do that, that would be quite interesting.  Let’s see what happens...

BD:    You’d rather give them this piece than slip something else in to get a bigger audience?

PG:    Well, it’s the best piece for them!  Now in Rio and São Paolo in Brazil, there’s a company that wants to do a work, and I’m giving them Akhenaten, because I think that one is the right piece for that company.  I have enough pieces so I can kind of think of it that way.  That director would be the right person for that piece.

BD:    When you’re writing a new piece, are you conscious of whom you’re writing it for?

PG:    Oh, yes.

BD:    Are you writing the right piece for that time and place?

PG:    Well, you try to, and sometimes what happens is you miss the date by a year or two.  Sometimes you end up in the wrong city, which is exactly what happened with The Representative.  Originally, I wrote The Representative for Planet Eight with David Hockney to be the designer.  David was very ill that year.  He had trouble with his ears, actually.  He has recovered now and is fine, but at the time I was doing the piece, I lost my designer.  Fortunately, I was working with Eiko Ishioka, and I involved her in the project.  But in the meantime, the schedule got changed by a year or two.  The original company that was going to do it was no longer able to do it, so a piece that I’d originally written for the Dutch Opera is now turning out to be for the Houston Opera.  So our intentions are one thing, and the results may not always conform to that.  Twyla Tharp asked for music for her company.  I went to see her company dance.  I’ve seen it before, of course, but I went to a number of rehearsals and I talked with her.  She wasn’t specific about what she wanted, but...

BD:    When you go like that, are you looking with different eyes and listening with different ears?

PG:    Yes.  I was very much thinking about a piece for her company.  I have the feeling that if I were writing it for Molissa Fenley’s company or The American Ballet Theater, or another company, I would have written a different piece.  I don’t doubt that I would have written a different piece.

BD:    Then would you be offended if this other company takes over the piece that you wrote for Twyla Tharp?

PG:    No!  No, no.  It just becomes different.  There is the original conception of a work, and then there are these other things that happen.  After all, Satyagraha has had two productions and it’s been in five different opera houses.  This is the first American opera house, really.  Don’t forget, in Brooklyn, in New York, where it played in 1980, that’s not really an opera house.  That’s a presenting house.  To be in a real opera house is quite a different matter.  Another work I did, The Juniper Tree, is going into the third production, so it’s well beyond the original.  That work I did with another composer named Bob Moran, so I’ve even collaborated with composers.  That was a very interesting process, by the way.  At one point I wrote a theme and he wrote the variations.  Things like that have happened before, but it was very interesting to do it.  We originally wrote that piece for a children’s music school in New York.  They never did it; another company did it, and now it’s being done by a German opera house, and the opera company in Omaha.  It’s interesting when people come to a work and they bring something new to it.

*     *     *     *     *

BD:    I want to talk about the large gulf that is apparently separating the big concert public, with, say, the Saturday Night Live public.  You have feet planted in both sides.

PG:    Yes.

BD:    Are you going to try, then, to draw the audience from one to the other in both directions?

glass PG:    The differences aren’t as great as we imagine.  Most of my friends stayed up that night to watch me on Saturday Night Live, and that wasn’t the first night they had watched it.  Most of my friends watch it all the time, anyway.  So the difference between a high culture and a general public is sometimes the same people and how they feel at a different time of the day.  The differences are not that great.  I have friends who have a hard time if they have to choose between Twyla Tharp and going to a Mets baseball game.  They don’t know which one to go to, and they’ll somehow try to do them both.  So our loyalties are less defined.  We as a people experience our culture in a lot of different ways.  We define ourselves less rigidly than we used to.

BD:    Is this good?

PG:    Well, it’s good for the artist.  It means that it’s more challenging.  It’s more difficult for writers and analysts of culture, because the old formulas don’t work anymore, and you have to think of new ways of defining art.

BD:    But artists never really seem to be concerned with formulas and definitions.

PG:    Yes and no.  Yes and no.  How’s that for an answer?  [Both laugh]  When I played on that particular program, I played the same music on Saturday Night Live that I play at my concerts.  So what I do is I take my work and put it in different places.  The interesting thing is that we tend to experience it somewhat differently in those different places.  But has the work really changed?  I’m not sure.  Our perception of the work has changed, because we put it in those different arenas.  I began doing that years ago when I would go to Los Angeles, for example.  One year I would play at the Roxy, which is a nightclub on the Sunset Strip, and the next year I would play at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.  I just thought it was interesting because the people that came to the Roxy were the same people that went to the other place, but it was different for them.

BD:    Should the people who go to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion all the time come to see you?

PG:    I don’t get those people anyway.

BD:    Do you want to?

PG:    I want to get everybody!  [Both laugh]  I don’t exempt anyone as a possible follower of my work or anybody else’s work.  Why should I?  There’s no reason to do that.  I don’t know who those people might be.  You’d be surprised.  I was down in El Paso once doing a concert, and a lady came up to me after the concert.  She said, “I just love that music.”  I said, “Oh, really?  Where did you hear it?”  She said [in a southern drawl], “I was driving in my pick-up and I heard this come on the radio, and I said ‘that music’s for me.’”  She then said, “Tell me something.  What is it?”  I didn’t know what to say exactly, and I said, “It’s just music.”  But the point is that kind of thing happens to me a lot.  That’s a person who didn’t know I was a Soho artist or an underground composer, or an experimental composer, or a minimalist composer.

BD:    You were just the guy who wrote that piece.

PG:    Right.  There was someone driving around in her pick-up and heard it on the radio, and heard I was in town so she came to the concert.  I didn’t write the music for her, but I didn’t not write it for her either.  I think that’s real interesting.

BD:    The great big philosophical question, then.  What is the ultimate purpose of music today?

PG:    Of course that’s a complicated thing to talk about.  One of the things that’s interesting about the theater is that I’m getting around to answering the question.  I’ll do it in a backwards kind of way.  One of the things that interests me about the theater is that you can do a performance of a work, let’s say in Chicago, and you can do seven performances in a theater, and close to twenty thousand people will come.  But I come to Chicago, usually to perform with my ensemble, and I do one concert.  If I played in New York, I can do one or two concerts, but I can run a show for twenty performances.  It’s interesting that the theater and the concert audiences are so different.  Concert music doesn’t stretch that well, but theater music does.  You can stretch it over a much larger audience.  I began to see this by working this way, because after all this is what I do.  Some years, in the same year I’ll do fifty concerts, and at the same time there may be two operas and a couple of ballets going on.  So I’m seeing that all the time, and I see now that the theater is this very special place.  It’s a place where the world of art and the world of entertainment intersect.  It’s a very curious place, and when I look back I think about Verdi.  I’m not exactly comparing myself, but whatever you might think of the relative merits of the work, basically we’re in the same business.

BD:    [With a big smile]  I think he’d be happy with that.

PG:    [With a pleased look]  Thank you.  The theater is a public affair and the opera is that interesting place where art and entertainment come together.  That’s not so true in the concert hall.  There we’re talking about art in a more abstract way.  However, we have organizations and people now who are even challenging that.  I went to see the Kronos Quartet recently and I found that extremely entertaining.  They meant it to be.  They absolutely meant it to be.  You could say, “Are they selling out?”  Well, maybe they are, but I heard a concert of all twentieth century string quartet music, and it was marvelous!  There were pieces I never would have heard, and some pieces I knew.  They did it with a style and a show-biz savvy that any rock band would admire.  They knew what they’re doing.  They’re not doing this unconsciously.  They’re very clearly working that way, and what they’ve probably done more in a few years and probably played more pieces of twentieth century music than the Juilliard String Quartet has played in its whole career.  I don’t mean to knock them at all.  As an institution the Juilliard’s been a powerful force for contemporary music, but the Kronos players have committed themselves.

glass BD:    It’s a different approach to concert giving.

PG:    Exactly, and they’ve made a full commitment to this.  So, it’s interesting.  You say, “What is the purpose of music?  Where is it going?”  The parameters of music are very broad.  We have composers amongst us who write in a very abstract way and can write beautiful pieces, complex pieces, pieces that they would admit are not meant for the general public, and we would be misunderstanding them if we put them in an outdoor space and brought ten thousand people there.  It wouldn’t be fair to anybody, particularly.  I don’t think those pieces are meant to be heard that way.  You have pieces that are more abstract, and you have other composers who are willing or able for temperamental reasons to address themselves to a broader audience.  We can’t say that one is better than the other.  I’m afraid that the populist pieces of Rossini are going to be around forever.  I think that Mozart is one of our best theater composers and one of our best composers of any medium or any genre altogether.  There’s no one that wouldn’t agree that Don Giovanni or The Magic Flute or Così fan Tutte are works of supreme musical importance.

BD:    Do you feel you’re part of this line of composers?

PG:    [Laughs]  Which line, because I’m mentioning several.  Certainly I fall within the range from the abstract to the more accessible.  Clearly, for temperamental reasons and for personal reasons and for artistic reasons, I’m a person who, very frankly, spent my time writing for the broader public.  The curious thing is that for so many years I was considered an avant garde composer, an underground composer, because the personal style that I chose for almost fifteen or twenty years was considered very radical.  But in the perspective of 1987, it doesn’t seem radical at all.

BD:    Are you ever going to be old hat, or passé?

PG:    I don’t know.  [Both laugh]  The interesting thing is that in concerts I do now, I play pieces from 1969, and some of them sound very fresh still.  It’s interesting.  If you’ve written music that spans twenty-five years, you can go back to it.  You can look at a piece, and some pieces have survived better than others.  That’s true for everybody.  I have pieces from my thirties that I still can listen to, but pieces from my forties I’m not particularly interested in.

BD:    You don’t want to disown those pieces, do you?

PG:    One doesn’t have the choice.  I’m too public a person to be able to do that anyway at this point.  But I don’t know exactly what point is the best point to make about all this.  A lot of these things have to do with where our natural gifts lie and where our temperament is.  I always felt that my music was meant for a public of some sort.  The fact is that I began as a performing musician with my ensemble when I was barely thirty, and against all kinds of obstacles I continued to play in small houses and out of the way places for years and years until finally I got an audience.  But my conviction was that the music was for those kinds of places.  It was meant for public consumption in that way.  It took a while for everyone to agree with me, but now that people have, it shouldn’t be a surprise.  After all, that’s what I’ve been doing all along.  So it’s a complicated question, and
it’s not one that anyone can answer very easily.  We have too many cases of the popular composer who is also the great composer, and to be unplayed doesn’t guarantee any authority to your work, either.

BD:    Is composing fun?

PG:    For me it is.  It’s what I prefer to do.

BD:    Do you prefer composing, then, over performing?

PG:    In a way I do but it’s a nice balance between the two.  I am a nice combination of introvert/extrovert in person.  If I start working at seven in the morning and work until noon, there’s nothing I like better than going down to the recording studio and spending the rest of the day around with musicians.  It’s a very nice balance for me.  For some people, that might be balanced perhaps by teaching.  There are other ways of being a public person, or sharing what you know with other people.  I chose to be a performer.  I find that I have a tremendous appetite for working on music, and I turn out a lot of music every year.  Clearly it isn’t for the money, because years ago I didn’t make any money and I did it anyway.  It’s an appetite for the work that seems to have sustained me.

BD:    What advice do you have for young composers coming along?

PG:    What I have to say is the same old platitude that you hear from everybody
that you have to really follow your own beliefs.  For a long time I didn’t have a public, and I continued until I did.  That doesn’t mean it always happens that way.  I was lucky in a certain way.  You really have to believe.  My teachers told me things which I didn’t believe.  They told me I would never make a living writing music, and they were wrong.  I believed that I could.  I believed there was a public for new music, and I was right about that.  I believed I can do operas that would fit into places like the Chicago Lyric Opera, and it’s turned out to be true.  Twenty years ago no one would have thought it really possible.  Satie once said, “When I was young they said, ‘When you grow up, when you’re older, you’ll see.’  Well, I’m older now, and I’ve seen nothing!”  [Both laugh]

BD:    Have you seen?

PG:    Well, the idealism of youth is something, and that’s what the opera about Gandhi is about
— the idealism of youth is something that we need never grow out of.  What the young composer has is something that some of the older composers don’t have, and that’s what they should hold on to.

BD:    What advice do you have for performers?

PG:    Especially with new music, it’s bound to be difficult in a certain way.  Any new language requires a new technique to play it.  It shouldn’t surprise us.  How could it be otherwise?  How could you have a new musical idea that could be played in the same old way?  If we remember that and if we give the work a little chance to speak for itself, I think we come around to it.  That’s happened with me with the singers I’ve gone to for about ten years.  The first couple of weeks a singer has to deal with my music they can be quite anxious about it.  Then if they stay with it for just another day or two longer, it suddenly opens up.  Many singers have told me that.  They said, “Oh, I didn’t get it at first and now I do.”  I said, “What’s happened?” because I want to know.  I said, “What changed your mind?” and they said, “I kind of got into it.”  It’s not much of an explanation, but what it means is that what seemed strange and what seemed arbitrary at first ends up being natural, and becomes a function of the music.

BD:    Does this same metamorphosis happen with the public?

PG:    Clearly it does.  I’m playing more in public than I did before, and my work is being played before the public more.  It’s on the radio more.  I can tell from my ASCAP reports.  I get these reports twice a year so I know what’s happening.  In that way, time is always on your side to a degree.

BD:    Thank you for being a composer.

PG:    [Laughs] Thank you.  I’m glad I could be here to talk with you.


To read my Interview with Iannis Xenakis, click HERE.

To read my Interview with John Cage, click HERE.

© 1982 and 1987 Bruce Duffie

These conversations were recorded in Chicago.  The first at the University of Chicago on February 19, 1982, and the second at Lyric Opera of Chicago on July 29, 1987.  Portions were broadcast on WNIB twice in 1987 and again in 1997.  Copies of the unedited audio of both have been placed in the Archive of Contemporary Music at Northwestern University.  This transcription was made in 2015, and posted on this website at that time.

To see a full list (with links) of interviews which have been transcribed and posted on this website, click here.

Award - winning broadcaster Bruce Duffie was with WNIB, Classical 97 in Chicago from 1975 until its final moment as a classical station in February of 2001.  His interviews have also appeared in various magazines and journals since 1980, and he now continues his broadcast series on WNUR-FM, as well as on Contemporary Classical Internet Radio.

You are invited to visit his website for more information about his work, including selected transcripts of other interviews, plus a full list of his guests.  He would also like to call your attention to the photos and information about his grandfather, who was a pioneer in the automotive field more than a century ago.  You may also send him E-Mail with comments, questions and suggestions.