The Brooklyn Rail

“New music” is one of those terms that has been used so often and for so many decades that it has the air around it of settled meaning. But take it apart, ask multiple people to explain it, and it's likely no one would agree.

Call it, in the term of the day, a vibe. New music doesn't have to be literally new for it to feel new. Something can have accumulated years and still be fresh, have ideas and style not only unsurpassed but barely followed by what comes after; Renaissance polyphony can still sound new, the same for Beethoven’s Piano Sonata op. 111, Leo Ornstein, Art Tatum, Sly Stone, Can, Betty Davis. Some music just captures the sensation of breaking through old ideas into wide open territory, and that’s not vibes but the way it’s made; questing.

That's Philip Glass's Music in Twelve Parts, which the Philip Glass Ensemble played at Town Hall just short of the fiftieth anniversary of its world premiere at the same venue. Composed from 1971 to 1974, and predating Einstein on the Beach, it’s a culmination of everything Glass had been experimenting with up to that point. It can be heard as many things: a textbook in sound of Glass’s particular minimalist practice; a contemporary repurposing of classical structures from Mozart and Bruckner; a catalogue of musical ideas Glass would dip into for later works, especially Einstein; and ultimately a glorious, deeply immersive musical experience.

Music in Twelve Parts is first and foremost the latter—it’s simply beautiful, from the slow drifting ballet of phrases in Part 1 to the playful, twisting lines of Part 4, through the gradual accumulation of modulations and cadences in Part 11, and beyond. This performance was often as beautiful and hypnotic as can be, as much so as the 2018 performance by the ensemble in the same venue. That one was slightly louder, and volume matters here, the music should press against and around the listener, and while the mix at this May concert was clear and rich, it could have exerted a slight bit more of pressure.

But the newness was there. So was the balance between vocalist Lisa Bielawa, wind players Peter Hess, Sam Sadigursky, and Andrew Sturman, and keyboardists Michael Riesman and Mick Rossi (Dan Bora handled the sound projection). No matter how many times one listens to this (there are three full and one partial recording), there is a sense that Glass has just discovered it’s possible to make music this way, and that feeling of surprise came through the musicians. That has something to do with his process—he originally only made the first section in twelve different contrapuntal voices. He played it for a friend and told her the title, and (as he related) she said, “that’s very beautiful; what are the other eleven parts going to be like?” That was the impromptu challenge he took up, and that spirit is there.

This is music to hear live, and performances are infrequent, so that experience also feels new. Inside that is the makeup of the ensemble, which has slowly changed through the decades. There was a brittleness underlying this evening that left some doubts for the future of the piece. While Glass has composed for many different ensembles, and much of his early music has been taken up by musicians outside his original orbit, Music in Twelve Parts, like Einstein, is still a speciality for his ensemble (a 2022 performance of Einstein at the Elbphilharmonie from Collegium Vocale Gent, Ictus, and narrator Suzanne Vega is polished but wan). When they can no longer play it, who will?

Glass played at the 2018 concert, but now at eighty-seven sat in the balcony to enjoy this one. Long-time music director Riesman (he did not play at the premier but can be heard on the live 1975 partial recording on Transversales Disques) is the sole remaining member from the ’70s group. This music is hard to play, demanding high degrees of dexterity and physical and mental endurance, the former a level of energy and the latter a calm, even, unflustered focus. Small mistakes are inevitable and usually harmless. The whole group missed a couple of beats at the start of Part 4, a nerve-wracking proposition in music that moves with such precise and constant group coordination that falling off even a little can be a disaster, but they quickly managed to pull back from the cliff’s edge and continue smoothly.

Much more series were Parts 9 and 12, where Riesman fumbled, dropped out, and had long, anxious efforts of getting his hands back in order and rejoining the group. These were tense moments. Though likely things the groups has dealt with, they did make one wonder how much longer the ensemble can play this piece, and if anyone can take up the mantle.