With the world premiere of my miniature Beryllium for tenor saxophone, in my Elements series, on June 4th at 7:00PM EST (shoutout Drew Hosler, who will be performing my work!). I am making this entry into my series of blog posts about musical miniatures.
To say the work of Edgard Varese has had an enormous influence on my music is an understatement. I often make subtle references to his music in my compositions. Take the below example from his work Density 21.5 for solo flute. The opening motive, F-E-F# (alternatively, [0,e,1] or any of its permutations) is, in my opinion, a wonderful use of symmetry – reflecting across the pitch-axis of the first note, a half step below and then above that pitch.
Density 21.5 for solo flute, measure 1.
I often use this motive directly in my music. I sometimes use an expanded form, following this pattern through a twelve-tone row.
Reflected across the axis of the first pitch, the tone row expands outward in pairs of semitones.
Other times, I use the idea by taking a musical motive, and repeating it down a semitone, and then up a semitone from the original. Take the following example from Beryllium:
Beryllium, measure 4. The 5-let motive starts on A, then is repeated on G# and Bb.
This technique permeates the whole piece. I also really love the low honks which saxophones are capable of. These are heard throughout the work.
Beryllium, measure 15. This example shows both the Density 21.5 technique, and low honks.
It’s always fun writing for a virtuoso (and new-music specialist!) like Hosler. They always seem to find a way to make difficult passages sound effortless. Hosler will be giving the world premiere performance of the anthropocene extinctionfor solo baritone saxophone later this year. He also premiered Lithium and Saxharp!
Beryllium, measures 16-19. Techniques used include a multiphonic, low honks, and harmonics from the low register up through the altissimo register.
In this series of posts, I plan to discuss the musical ideas that go into my musical miniatures—brief, concentrated works that distill compositional thought into compact forms. These pieces often last only a minute or so, but within that short time, I aim to explore specific ideas in harmony, structure, and texture.
My harmonic language, which leans toward the dissonant and chromatic, is well-suited to this format. Extended stretches of sharp dissonance can be overwhelming in longer pieces, but when confined to miniature form, they can be intense without exhausting the listener. Like Anton Webern, I prefer economy in many of my chamber works. The miniature allows me to say more with less, and to present musical ideas which are both concise and pointed.
One of my favorites to write in this genre has been a series of miniatures based on the periodic table of elements. For several years now, I’ve been composing one piece for each element, using a form of musical cryptography I’ve developed. This technique transforms the element’s name, its atomic number, and select properties into pitch material. From there, I craft the composition—not as a programmatic interpretation of the element, but by allowing the encoded material to generate the piece’s musical identity.
The outcomes can be surprising. Because my system excludes the numbers 10 and 11, the pitches A and A♯ do not appear in number-based material. Likewise, the English alphabet’s uneven letter distribution means some element names yield more tonal clarity, while others result in sharp dissonance. The cryptographic method is a structural constraint that shapes the work in often unexpected directions.
“Helium,” for solo toy piano, opens with the notes of the F major pentatonic scale.
As the music progresses, additional notes are introduced methodically—B♭, E♭, A♭, D♭, and so on—expanding outward (and backwards!) through the circle of fifths. With each new pitch, the harmony becomes increasingly tense. Simultaneously, the tempo increases and a third contrapuntal voice emerges, enriching the texture and pushing the limits of the toy piano’s expressive capabilities.
The music accelerates throughout, and more pitches are added as the piece develops. As such, the music starts out with very consonant counterpoint, and over time becomes increasingly dissonant.
Distilling a musical idea into such a short form (and keeping the product musically coherent and interesting) is a challenge which draws me to the miniature. Because the musical ideas stem directly from external constraints (i.e., the properties of the particular element being expressed through my cryptographic method) the process remains fresh, surprising, and creatively challenging.
In future posts, I’ll delve into other works in the periodic table series, exploring how different elements have inspired unique musical solutions, and how I have explored different musical ideas I’ve been interested in over time.
Here are some things which have been occupying me musically and personally over the last week.
The Busy Season
Musically, it is the busy season! Publishers are putting out their new catalogs, and starting to accept new works. In that vein, I have one band (I’ll expand on that one below) and one strings work in progress. It is also marching band season, and I have two marching shows I am arranging – one with a theme of celebrating Chicano music and culture; and the other with a weather theme. I am learning a ton about writing for battery and front ensemble; integrating work with other folks, who choreograph the shows, and my contractor for writing percussion parts; and even some styles for arranging jazz, a la Basie.
I recently read John Green’s new book “Everything is Tuberculosis.” In this book, he describes the tragically short life of the Japanese poet, Masaoka Shiki. Shiki, who revived the poetic forms of haiku and tanka in the late nineteenth century, died an agonizing death from tuberculosis in his mid 30s. His poems are both beautiful and haunting, with vivid imagery and rich symbolism.
Inspired by both Shiki and Green, I’ve begun work on a piece for oboe and vibraphone based on Shiki’s work. The seven selected poems feature his despair and suffering, including imagery of snow and luffa plants. Each is being written into a movement of music, with the tentative title “The Tuberculosis Verses.” I intend the whole work to be about 10 minutes in length. The oboe-vibraphone duo is a beautiful, but unfortunately under-explored, medium in chamber music, and this will be my (first) contribution to the genre. If you’re interested in joining the project, or know of someone who would be, please reach out!
Sonemoia– a neologism
The band work in progress, with the tentative title “Petroglyphs,” will be about a grade 1 to 1.5 work which is somber in nature. Inspired by petroglyphs found in Arizona, and those I viewed recently in Joshua Tree National Park, I found myself lacking the words to describe precisely the emotions I felt viewing these artifacts from 2000 years ago. “The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows,” penned by neologist John Koenig, offers two words which are close – sonder and anemoia.
Sonder is the feeling that everyone around you lives a life as rich and complex as your own, that you can never truly know. Everyone, including the stranger you pass on the street and the person that lives on the other side of the planet, lives a life full of love, hope, grief, regret, and the rest of the full spectrum of what it means to be human – they work hard, love their friends and family, and do the best they can. It’s a profound feeling, and it reminds us we have more in common with everyone than we think. Indeed, the world might be a nicer place if we all remembered to imagine each other complexly.
Anemoia is nostalgia for a time one can never know. I certainly felt this when seeing the Joshua Tree petroglyphs, but the feeling was more complex. As I stood before the petroglyphs, I was struck not just by the artistic marks themselves, but by the people behind them. Their joys, fears, dreams, and disappointments are lost to time, but their marks remain—silent yet deeply human. As we are separated by time, I wonder what stories, jokes, and music their culture might have had, and in some sense feel a sense of loss that these are all lost to time. And I wonder what from our time will be lost to future generations.
So with the help of ChatGPT, I coined a new word: sonemoia. A portmanteau of sonder and anemoia, sonemoia represents the wistful, aching awareness that others—whether distant in geography or history—have lived lives as real as ours, full of laughter, sorrow, and longing. It is the grief of never knowing their stories, and the hope that our own will one day be seen with the same reverence. In a world that too often flattens others into enemies or footnotes, sonemoia is a call to imagine more deeply, feel more widely, and remember more kindly.
Jason Taurins 