
In a recent email, I asked Jim Fox to tell me about Descansos, Past, the significance of the title, and more. Here is his reply:
As mentioned in the CD's single sentence of liner note, the piece was written "in memorium" for a friend, John Kuhlman, who took his own life in 1996. John was a good fellow and an interesting composer (a short piece of his is on the old "Cold Blue" anthology, CB0008). He was also an occasional bass player.
I'd been meaning to do something dedicated to John for nearly eight years, but the right moment and right idea did not seem to present themselves until the early spring of 2004, when I prepared a piece to be presented in June at L.A.'s historic Schindler House at an evening of works by composers associated with the Cold Blue label, sponsored by SASSAS (The Society for the Activation of Social Space through Art and Sound) and co-sponsored by MOCA in conjunction with the exhibition "A Minimal Future? Art as Object."
As I began to think about that piece, it became clear that I would employ a double bass in a solo role and dedicate the piece to the memory of my friend. I'd had the title/idea of "descansos" in my pocket for some time, thinking about it as an hour-long multi-movement work for piano and strings that would have broad "in memorium" connotations and possibly some direct ones too.
Since I had not moved forward to any great degree with that large piece and since "descansos" was a particularly appropriate title for the bass and cellos piece, I chose to use it there, qualified with "past," and, in that way, also retain "decansos" for the larger piece, where it would then be qualified with "present."
"Descansos" are little roadside memorials that one commonly finds throughout the Southwest, marking the spot where someone died. They may be simple (just a cross or wreath) or ornate (a small shrine), and are a recognized form of Mexican-influenced folk art. The word itself means "rest," and I have encountered two prevailing stories as to its roadside-memorial use. The first suggests that the idea arrived from Europe with the Conquistadors, who marked the death of one of their own with a small marker, usually a cross, referred to as a "descansos," at the spot along the road where a person died--that individual's final "resting place." This story rings true to me. The second story seems a less-reasonable explanation: The markers originally marked the spots where pallbearers carrying a coffin to the graveyard would stop to "rest" during their journey. Tied to this story is another that relates the markers and pallbearers' journey to the Catholic Church's "Stations of the Cross" concept. In short, I believe the simple marker where a traveler (or anyone on a road or roadside) fell/died, dating from the time of the earliest European conquest of the Americas, is the most reasonable "descansos" history, and in agreement with present usage.
Perhaps I should point out here that in my use of "descansos" I dissociate the word from all particular religious meaning. I'm not a religious person in any sense whatsoever, but I find fascinating the ways that man has throughout history thought about and commemorated death, his own and those of his friends and enemies. And I feel a certain yet amorphous "resonance," which I suspect most of us do, when strolling old cemeteries and battlefields and other places where death and life coincide directly. Perhaps this is tied to the simple sense that we're all headed into inevitable oblivion, and for the moment we pause with that thought, we share something with all who walk the earth and all who have walked the earth in the past.
Philosophical conjecturing and eerie feelings aside, "Descansos" simply seemed an appropriate title for an "in memorium" piece. And, it was in this spirit--an appropriate title with a nice feel coming off the tongue--that I chose to use it.
Construction of "Descansos, past" is rather straight-forward and most likely self-evident to the listener. It's an intentionally moody and intimate vaguely concerto-like piece that sets an ever-pizzicato double bass (a five-string, extending to low B) amid a choir of nine ever-arco cellos, one of which (played by new-music champion cellist Duke-Kirkpatrick) soars up to the highest notes available on the very edge of the instrument's fingerboard. The piece's nine cello parts were performed for this recording by four cellists who were overdubbed.
I am delighted to know that this will appear with the Antheil. When younger, I was a great fan of GA and responsible for Samuel French's paperback reprint of his autobiography. (And I even own an old Covici edition of Pound's book on Antheil.)
Player bios: ---Jim Fox, 16 April, 2005 |