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Fabrication 31: Fiction
2019

soprano
tenor
2 flutes
oboe
english horn
c larinets
2 bassoons
2 horns
2 trumpets
tenor trombone
tuba
2 percussion
 1. thunder sheet, vibraphone
 2. bass drum, sizzle cymbal, suspended cymbal
strings

duration 5'

SCORE

PROGRAM NOTE
I typically write music with fairly involved programmatic intentions along with forms that echo or amplify them. However, I also enjoy music that simply unfolds a process or a ‘conceit’. Fabrication 30: Imitation is a component part of a larger 32-movement cycle for various ensembles ranging from solos and duos to works for orchestra. These Fabrications explore more mechanical approaches to generating music. Each has a subtitle; a synonym of ‘fabrication’ which says something about the piece itself.

A certain type of composer likes to astound audiences with tales of how speedily a piece was written. In reality, however, the more experience one has as a composer – and the more unused ideas – the easier it is to write a work (or, perhaps, write a work down) in a short time, especially if the work has a utilitarian purpose. This came from a pedagogical push; a visiting ensemble came to give a
workshop of student compositions. There were, however, dismayingly few submissions, so this was written using a fair amount of cutting and pasting (the ‘imitation’), copied, and parts made in a few hours and then sent to the students to urge them to do the same and provide pieces for the workshop the next day. This was heavy-handed but it worked, and we saw a further eighteen submissions. Despite such an ignoble birth it fits here as another example of 'mechanical' composing.

see also Fabrications

TEXT
There is a line connecting us but it does not bend
when you point north, I look to the south
when you point east, I look to the west
when you are in China, I am exactly opposite
trudging along the bottom of the Atlantic perhaps.

I think, if I can become clever enough, someday we’ll meet
but stuck here at the bottom of the pendulum I see only parts of you
a strand of hair,. the bottoms of your feet
I stare upwards with impatient longing
studying each angle of your face
slowly revealed then quickly hidden with each swing of the arc
brought into being in phases like the moon’s
a few lucky seconds every third day
keep my hope simmering, constant
I spend all my evenings and weekends
scrutinizing heavy, impenetrable textbooks
in dark university libraries
trying to find a loophole in the rules of geometry.

One day the steel rod will break in half, or a bone will snap,
and at last I will rush to your side.
I will see your face, not in shadow,
I will see all of you, your eyes, your mouth, your body.
I will take you into my arms
and you will squirm like a 6-year-old child
saying, “Who are you? What do you want?”
or, better maybe, your body, convulsing with the spasms of death,
will prevent you from seeing
who is comforting you in your last moments.

Either way you won’t recognize me.

Not even if I show you the top of my head.

Frederick Choi (b. 1979)