Meadow Bridgham, composition
Thursday, November 17, 2022 | 7:30 p.m. | Morse Recital Hall in Sprague Memorial Hall
Meadow Bridgham b. 1989
Concertino for bassoon and string quartet (2021)
I. Mezza-Sonata II. Marcia funebre quasi un ballo III. Rapsodia Maniacale
Mark Ortwein, bassoon Kate Arndt, violin I Andrew Samarasekara, violin II Grace Takeda, viola Aaron Wolff, cello
Cello Variations (2018)
Jacob Taylor, cello
Lightning Bugs (2021)
Daniel Fletcher, flute Lloyd Van’t Hoff, clarinet Doug Perry, marimba
intermission
Program, cont.
Bridgham Mozschubartsibinsky (2019–2021)
Ryo Kaneko, piano I Brandon Vos, piano II
Responses (2020) V. unrest Meadow Bridgham, toy piano
Seasons of Seizing: Six Poems on Temporal Lobe Epilepsy (2022) I. My breath is fire II. Alone in fear III. Deep breaths IV. It could account for the panic V. My lifebar glows VI. Next season will be better
Andrew Durham, baritone Meadow Bridgham, piano
This performance is in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the Doctor of Musical Arts degree. As a courtesy to others, please silence all devices. Photography and recording of any kind is strictly prohibited. Please do not leave the hall during musical selections. Thank you.
Liz WhiteacreArtist Profile
Meadow Bridgham, composition
Meadow Bridgham is a composer, arranger, pianist, and educator based out of Indianapolis, IN. Much of their music interacts with the formal and tonal traditions of the common practice period. However, their music never settles into any specific style, occasionally exhibiting pop-inspired, improvisational, quarter-tonal, and noisebased characteristics.
Meadow has worked with William Bolcom, Martin Bresnick, Aaron Jay Kernis, Han Lash, Gabriela Lena Frank, Derek Bermel, Joan Tower, and Libby Larsen. Their music has been performed as part of the American Music Festival, Colorado Music Festival, New York Festival of Song, the Shandelee Music Festival, the Midwest Composers Symposium, Westben Composer-Performer Residency, and the Norfolk Chamber Music Festival.
Meadow is in the post-residential phase of their Doctor of Musical Arts degree in Music Composition at the Yale School of Music.
I. My Breath is Fire
my breath is fire pumping blood stokes my veins—lungs, bellows—
my breath is fire plumes trace exhales that stretch towards heaven—mouth, flue—
my breath is fire heat dances from my lips in refracted waves—air, vent— my breath is fire capturing my attention— I cannot answer you my breath is fire my breath heats my breath blisters my breath silences— us
II. Alone in fear
I’m sitting here alone in fear. People pass, they don’t look back. TLE, what’s wrong with me?
Doctors this and doctors that… they don’t have answers, that’s a fact. Say I’m sad, maybe mad, Say I’m depressed, just a mess, I’m not in tune with my mood. Say I must have misunderstood—
And, I’m sitting here alone in fear. People pass, they don’t look back. TLE, what’s wrong with me?
I know depression, panic attacks, don’t tell me night terrors…take it back. I know my body, that’s a fact. I know your warm-fuzzy déjà vu doesn’t make you freeze or pull yourself through cationic pain—
And, I’m sitting here alone in fear. People pass, they don’t look back. TLE, what’s wrong with me?
I mirror your relaxed attitude sitting here still as frozen food. You can’t know my interior is wild with dreamscapes inferior to this reality where I don’t know what’s happening to me—
And, I’m sitting here alone in fear. People pass, they don’t look back. TLE, what’s wrong with me?
Texts
III. Deep breaths
let’s circle ‘round to get to the point: deep breaths pull in tangential blooms of microscopic flowers into our lungs— beauty breathed out. repeat.
it’s simple. tune out the talking. let’s cut past the remembered trauma, sitting upstairs, hands clasped ‘round an imagined bouquet. injected into this dream, we’ll rise into nostalgic air, blurry & warm like dandelion fuzz in the sun.
repeat the breath, blinking. let’s pretend we won’t hear the vase shatter downstairs. tune out the screaming. focus on the taste of zinnias, red & pink. repeat. colors bubble like watercolors on wet paper.
let’s circle ‘round to get to the point: focus on good feelings’ bloom warm in our guts. let’s pretend they won’t seize, leave us shaking, alone on a bed in a different room
all warmth gone. still, in a cold moment
IV. It could account for the panic
What if Alice woke again? Woke again with the bitter taste of shrinking potion on her tongue, and the White Rabbit beckoned once more? What if you could talk yourself out of a focal aware seizure? Did you ever think about that? Or are you thinking about that rabbit and bitter potion and crawling elbow over elbow into a dark, gritty hole? Of being lost? Of adventure? Am I talking too much? You know, Alice had questions that never got answered and rapid heartbeats and deep breaths that soothed her confusion. Sometimes. Neophobic? Did you ever think about that? Maybe. It could account for the panic that made Alice pause. Pause and stall before chasing that white rabbit, dressed in his finest. Again. Curious. Heart beating, breath short, each detail cinematic—too much, too bright, you know? Am I talking too fast? No. You know, some call it a simple partial seizure. Simple. But, it’s not simple, you know? When I seize—but only partially, like Alice, caught in a moment, paused in one moment—I focus on making the right choice. You know, Alice had choices. She got to choose: too big or too small, this path or that path. Curious-er. Then, curious-er. Maybe I’m talking too much? But, we haven’t seen each other in so long. There’s so much to ask you. What if you were injected into a dream, trying to ride a dysphoric, euphoric, chaotic roller coaster, trying to follow disjointed details, forcing a narrative? What if one dimensional trauma felt four dimensional? Did you ever think about that? It could account for the panic that makes everyone pause. Freeze under its weight. The glow of synesthesia. What was that word? No, what did that word taste like? No, what time is it? We haven’t got much time left together, do we? Because, aren’t we late? Late for the terror we know is coming? Maybe in just a few moments. When a director yells, “cut!” And our scene, no my seizure, is over. Did you ever think about that? Maybe we leave the dream, like Alice, awake and shaking. Do you get it yet? I’m trying. I’m really trying. You see, it curious. When I seize—but only partially, like Alice, caught in that moment unable to tell you, precisely, what just happened—the aura starts as a buzz in the back of my head. And, I start thinking, maybe I’m on an adventure like Alice. Just passed in a moment of decision. Taking all the curiosities in. Trying to make the right choice. It could account for my panic. Did you ever think about that?
Texts, cont.
V. My lifebar glows
I’m exhausted from hours of uneasy scales. Need time to unwind, time to inhale
& exhale, but time blurs, tightens my gut. Fuzz in the back of my skull—static like I forgot.
It’s sharp like I panicked, hollow like I forgot lunch. Blood drains from fingertips, I can’t feel my touch.
My arms swing like pendulums, propelling me down a lengthening hallway, quarrelling
with my shadowself ‘til I float above myself, limbs akimbo, squinting down the hall’s vertigo effect.
It’s like I’m watching myself on video, my body doing things I didn’t tell it to. Flash of a load screen, then I’m pixelated. I’m suddenly a player in a game, manipulated.
…
My lifebar glows: my palm presses my hot air in. Until midnight’s frost wakes me, cold against my skin.
My routine’s familiar. I lower my cold hand, gently, feel the night particles, unplanned.
The rough of my jeans, as I locate my keys, brings me back, back home to you.
Texts, cont.
VI. Next season will be better
I didn’t want to jinx it, but I did over coffee commenting on all the seasons since I’ve seized. Like our garden, life’s been growing in coordinated rows: blooms & harvests timed with each sun set.
On the horizon I see storms coming, flash floods, hail. Triggers, like lightening, could signal failure— I worry over signs like powdery mildew & fungus. Things peck at me like aphids, puncturing my nerves.
You’re my ladybird, protector, you hold me together. We’ll pull things up, start over: next season will be better.
You were in the bedroom making routine sounds, & I could smell peonies on the table, signaling the end of another day. Dirt under my fingernails seemed stark before I pressed my calloused palm against my mouth.
Sounds slowed, I warmed, & the porch light dimmed. I couldn’t hear your call, only my heart drumming like the thrum of gasoline mowers and blowers after dinner. Heartache—like finding that deer stomped the melons,
cabbage moths devoured our crop or blight blanketed roses— settled deep in my chest until I could finally curl next to you. I can live with seizures, with you. Learn the clues, read soil and weather, so we can prepare for any, no every, thing.
You’re my ladybird, protector, you hold me together. With you, I’m stronger, I want to work towards our harvest. We’ll pull things up, start over: next season will be better. We’ll learn from this, grow, and move on.
Program Notes by the composer
Concertino for bassoon and string quartet
Mezza-Sonata is a truncated version of the familiar three-part sonata-allegro form. The exposition comprises two themes: the first is melancholy with its long phrases, falling chromatic lines, and undulating accompaniment; the second is more driving and dramatic with its constantly shifting key centers and anxious tremolos. The mezza (“half”) of this movement starts in the development, which wanders off in its own direction, overtaking what would have been the recapitulation and skipping directly to the coda—ignoring the sonata procedure.
Marcia funebre quasi un ballo (“Funeral March like a dance”) was written the evening following the 2021 storming of the United States Capitol. This movement’s title is a reference to Beethoven’s “Moonlight” Sonata, which carries the inscription Sonata quasi una Fantasia (“Sonata like a fantasy”). Additionally, the mood and meter—a processional in 3/8—references the slow movement to Schubert’s late A-major Piano Sonata.
Rapsodia Maniacale (“Manic Rhapsody”) is both a capricious response to the previous two movements and a rumination on the shifting moods I experienced during a mixed manic-depressive episode.
Cello Variations
The theme comprises two parts: the opening four measures is a tune composed by Eric Adamshick, the commissioner of this work; the following eleven measures are my response to and expansion of his music.
The first variation is a simple prelude that references J.S. Bach’s first cello suite.
The second variation is a Brahmsian etude which has the cellist practice their scales.
The third variation is a Bartókian dance that devolves into a cadenza.
The fourth variation is a Crumbian fantasy that explores the cello’s noisier qualities.
The fifth variation is a weeping Andante with broken chords and falling scales.
The sixth variation is a quiet reimagining of the theme as a work by C.P.E. Bach.
The conclusion explores two moods: anguish and acceptance. These final two variations mirror each other as minore (“minor mode”) and majore (“major mode”), in a stylized reference to the keyboard variations of Mozart.
Program Notes, cont.
Lightning Bugs
The little bugs with lights for butts— scientifically known as Lampyridae, colloquially known as fireflies, glowworms, or lightning bugs—are disappearing. Recent studies have suggested that anthropogenic light pollution may be one reason for their dwindling population.
These friendly summer beetles rely on their bioluminescent bottoms to communicate with one another. Scientists have observed that bright lights from cars and buildings may be causing them to desynchronize, leading to reduced opportunities for mating.
This composition tells the wordless story of a group of lightning bugs who find one another, dance together, and desynchronize.
Mozschubartsibinsky A Poem for Two Pianos
In a distant future, entertainment scientists will create a monstrous, five-headed android made from organic materials. This ultimate musicking machine will be powered by an advanced AI program trained on symphonists from the 18th, 19th, and 20th centuries. This android, Mozschubartsibinsky, will have taken its name from five ancient composers who, to this future society, have become obscure and even forgotten: Mozart, Schubert, Bartók, Sibelius, and Stravinsky
Recently, contemporary scientists have stumbled upon transmissions from this distant future leaking from a wormhole. Among the thicket of garbled sounds and blurry images they received a staticky audio file of what we now believe is music written by this Mozschubartsibinsky. I was hired by the government to transcribe, interpret, and reassemble this music for further study. I have taken a few liberties in piecing together what sounds to be a mix of musical approaches. This piece may give us insight into a future world where humans have lost interest in original music-making and mastered artistic imitation through artificial intelligence.
“unrest” from Responses
As the Covid-19 Pandemic ravaged the world, creatives rethought their collaborative projects. I participated in the 2020 Westben Performer-Composer Residency, which was reimagined as an all-digital web-design project between facilitators, designers, staff, and sixty-plus attendees. The goal was to collaborate with an assigned group by creating workshops and compositions that would be forever showcased on Westben’s website. We had three weeks to design a website and organize its content.
The residency began a few days following the murder of George Floyd, whose death galvanized a new wave of protests against institutionalized oppression. With these protests, the pandemic, and the rest of 2020 leaving our lives exhausted and unsure, my Westben group and I used extramusical concepts—exploration, guilt, realization, changes, unrest, and hope—as inspiration for short musical responses.
Seasons of Seizing: Six Poems on Temporal Lobe Epilepsy
When I was in middle school, I spent the night at my eldest sister’s house. I brought with me my cheap, plastic electric piano. I balanced it on the small desk in front of her computer and logged on to the now-defunct website, “Charlie’s Piano.” This was in the days before social media and IMSLP.
I was self-taught and getting decent at sightreading. I read Beethoven’s “Waldstein” Sonata for the first time that night. I remember being baffled by the first and second pages; it starts in C major and shifts suddenly to E major. All those accidentals excited me. What came next would be the first of many bizarre attacks:
In honor of “Transgender Awareness Week,” I dedicate my recital and the performance of this work to those beautiful people whom we have lost to political violence.
Trans Liberation Now!
My breath grew warm. I became nervous about something outside, anxiously pacing about from fear and confusion. Then I was struck by a vision. The world felt strange, as if I had been transported into a dream. At first, I was overcome with euphoria. I felt as if I had finally remembered something I had forgotten years prior. It felt like an intense déjà vu. But then everything changed. I heard voices. I saw lights. The room appeared to grow larger and smaller at the same time. In only a minute’s time, I was left fearful on the couch with my hand over my mouth.
I worked with Indiana poet, Liz Whiteacre, in 2021 to turn my TLE (Temporal Lobe Epilepsy) testimonials into a set of poems. Here I have set six to music.
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