Contemporary Music Review, 2014

Vol. 33, No. 4, 355–372, http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/07494467.2014.977025

Magnus Lindberg: Narratives of Time

and Space
Tim Howell

The creative energy which has emerged from Finland over the past 25 years or so has
generated a great deal of interest, not just in terms of scholarship but amongst the
concert-going public at large. Magnus Lindberg is a leading, internationally renowned
figure in contemporary music and his preoccupation with matters of musical timescale—
and its relationship to his native homeland—forms the basis of this article. An analytical
case study of his recent orchestral work Era gives a focus to more wide-ranging discussions
of time, space, motion and continuity, while helping us to understand the broad appeal of
this undoubtedly modern music to a refreshingly wide-ranging audience.

Keywords: Lindberg; Finnish Music; Time; Space; Analysis

Nothing puzzles me more than time and space; and yet nothing troubles me less, as I
never think about them. (Charles Lamb, 1810)

The passing of time is an elusive concept. Composers often exploit the idea of tem-
poral ambiguity, writing music that appears to subscribe to one time-frame while in
fact suggesting a range of alternatives. This gap between compositional reality and
listener perception—between the actual and the apparent—is a notably creative one.
It is indeed a puzzle, but one worth taking some trouble over as it becomes especially
acute in relation to contemporary music. Traditionally, tonality was a powerful force in
articulating musical time, both in generating an ongoing sense of continuity while deli-
neating the various stages that shape an architectural outline. This dual relationship,
between forms which unfold over time and a form that exists in space, is especially
cogent in repertoire from the common-practice period. Tonal music makes journeys
with clear destinations. It invites the listener to experience form not just as a succession
of things to hear, but more globally: as how things are heard. Post-tonal repertoire
raises new challenges for composers who wish to convey the equivalent interaction
of temporal narrative and structural shape within a modernist idiom. Indeed, new
music can make journeys without such destinations, or even set up destinations

© 2014 Taylor & Francis

356 T. Howell
without taking any journeys. This article does not attempt to map-out those larger his-
torical trends (though it duly acknowledges them), but offers instead a case study of
one leading figure: Magnus Lindberg. Through the broader cultural lens of Finnish
new music, alongside a more detailed analytical focus on Lindberg’s recent orchestral
work, a particular perspective on matters of timescale is revealed.1
With more composers per capita than anywhere in the world, small wonder that
people wanted to know why such a disproportionate amount of creative energy has
emerged from a small country like Finland. By now, the so-called ‘Finnish
Phenomenon’ has been well documented and the idea that Sibelius’ shadow cast
light on subsequent generations is widely accepted. This is a truly remarkable
journey—from the dominance of a single, national-romantic figure to the establish-
ment of a distinctive school of new music—and one that took place in a notably
compressed time-frame, particularly in relation to the rest of Europe. Finnish con-
temporary music has come out of the shadows, into the limelight—and is now
taking centre stage. Magnus Lindberg (b.1958) is a significant figure amongst a
post-Sibelian generation that was completely free to acknowledge or deny the influ-
ential ‘shadow’ of the grand-old-master, while benefitting from his practical legacy:
an enlightened music-education system. It is the particular value attributed to
music as a means of communication with the wider world that has resulted in
Finland producing so many outstanding composers, conductors, performers and
scholars (most of whom have emerged from the Sibelius Academy in Helsinki).
This cultural and educational background of Lindberg’s homeland is balanced by
a wholly cosmopolitan outlook; his teachers (Einojuhanni Rautavaara and Paavo
Heininen in Helsinki, Franco Donatoni in Siena, Helmut Lachenmann and Brian
Ferneyhough in Darmstadt (and London), York Höller in Cologne, Vinko Globo-
kar and Gérard Grisey in Paris) amount to a veritable International Who’s Who of
musical modernism. But he still acknowledges that his Finnish roots have played a
crucial part in forging an individual compositional voice and any attempt to under-
stand this fundamental trait, leads us—inevitably, it seems—to a consideration of
timescale.

Matters of Time and Place

Somehow, it has become a truth universally acknowledged that any composer born in a
Nordic country must be in need of more light. There is a fundamental preoccupation
with matters of darkness and light amongst North-European composers which affects
their perception of time; allied to this are related concerns with nature and landscape,
while the alienation of climate and language may create barriers to communication. So,
perhaps this is the time for some clichés—or for some clichés about time. Epithets
abound: ‘a sense of stillness’, ‘the power of quietude’, ‘atmospheric’, ‘meditative’, ‘con-
templative’ and so on have become something of a mantra for Nordic new music
(alongside even-more commonplace references to ‘darkness’, ‘melancholy’ and
‘brooding’). While any of these might have appeared in promotional materials or
 Contemporary Music Review 357
reviews of Lindberg’s work (or that of other contemporary, art-music composers),
they are deliberately taken from press coverage of the Norwegian jazz pianist and com-
poser, Tord Gustavsen.2 Perhaps this merely shows that journalistic clichés are of
limited value—but an understanding of a distinctive attitude towards timescale
cannot be ignored simply because of the paucity and superficiality of the ‘explanations’
employed. We need to consider the truth that lies behind these clichés (and take pride
that we can do so without prejudice). Although I have explored this in more depth
elsewhere, and generalisations can be dangerously misleading, it is worth outlining a
bit of the background to the Finnish engagement with matters of time as a preliminary
to the Lindberg case study.3
Basically the narrative goes like this. Finland’s natural environment with its long
dark winters and luminous summer nights must have some part to play in how
composers (or any creative artists) think, react and express themselves. The signifi-
cance of light for the inhabitants of this region cannot be underestimated and this
has been confirmed by a number of leading composers when interviewed about
their work. Of Lindberg’s generation, Kaija Saariaho (b.1952) is a particularly inter-
esting example; she still feels strongly affected by issues of light and dark, suggesting
that they are deeply rooted in her psyche, despite her having lived in Paris for some
30 years or so. Lindberg himself has repeatedly made mention of the special value
that Finnish people place in their appreciation of light, and was happy to reiterate
this in recent interview.4 More specifically, these extremes of light and dark, and the
very slow rate of evolution that takes an entire year to complete, undoubtedly
affects human perceptions of how time passes. Furthermore, this cyclic quality is
offset by abrupt seasonal changes: winter-to-spring happens in just a couple of
weeks—you can observe on a daily basis how a tree moves from brown to green;
the change back at the onset of winter is no less dramatic. With music being a tem-
poral art-form, the vivid presence of these two frames of reference—a gradual evol-
ution of light versus sudden contrasts of colour—has enormous consequences. The
horizontal unfolding of a slowly evolving narrative and the vertical cross-cuts of
immediate, spatial articulations are both embodied here. Consequently, an instinct
for musical form—as both a temporal process and a structural framework—is
deeply imbedded within the Finnish psyche. This is strikingly encapsulated in Saar-
iaho’s personal definition of her compositional process: ‘capturing time and giving
it a form’.5
Of course the counter-argument runs as follows: ‘the natural environment would be
common to all Nordic countries, at least with respect to the climate and the amount of
light … Such features do not explain internal differences, remarkable as they are,
between the music of the Nordic countries’ (Oramo, 1997, p. 41). So far, then, our per-
ceptions are simply Nordic and not specifically Finnish—but there is more to consider.
Most obviously, the overriding fact that the name ‘Sibelius’ has become synonymous
with ‘Finland’ in a manner that does not apply to other Nordic countries (or indeed,
elsewhere in Europe) sets Finland apart from other nations; it is due to the impact of its
music that this small country has become such a big player in the wider international
358 T. Howell
community. But there are more precise reasons as well. Environment and landscape
are only part of the equation: language is another element here and nobody can
dispute that Finnish is different from other Nordic (indeed European) languages.
Yet this too becomes complicated because the native tongue of some notable
Finnish composers (including, significantly, both Sibelius and Lindberg) is Swedish.
Nevertheless they, along with all others of their ilk, are in fact bilingual and Sibelius
(again) is something of a role model here, given his path from a Swedish-speaking
background to becoming the central figure of Finnish national identity. Indeed, the
self-conscious manner in which Sibelius absorbed the cadence and metre of the Kale-
vala runes, for example, suggests that the musical properties of this unique language
were only elevated in his perception. Discussions with Magnus Lindberg broaden
the issue still further, as he cites an essential difference between the Scandinavian
and Slavonic temperament: that of being more extrovert or introverted, respectively;
moreover, he attributes the particular energy in his music as being the product of
that disposition, emanating from his own cultural background as a Swedish-speaking
Finn.6
However, the ways in which that sense of time and energy are conveyed composi-
tionally are more deep-rooted and fundamental, the product of intellectual rigour
and not just personal temperament. This is a process whereby an evocative atmosphere
emerges through precisely imagined structures; influences of landscape or environ-
ment, conveyed through timescale are subject to organisational techniques. How an
expressive space comes to be shaped into musical form involves compositional pro-
cedures of tempo, metre, rhythm, repetition, variation, development and continuity.
The suggestion here is that specific instances of these technical elements are quite
directly imbedded within the unique speech patterns and construction of the
Finnish language, and that native composers instinctively synthesise them within
their musical discourse.7 Their particular engagement with capturing time and
giving it form emerges from a combination of both environmental and linguistic influ-
ences: a convergence that is highly distinctive. It sets the music of Finland apart from
that of its Nordic neighbours, while the practical, educational aspects of the Sibelius
legacy have positively encouraged and supported young composers to develop their
art and reach out to the wider world.

From Aura to Era

Lindberg’s track record for writing large-scale orchestral pieces is impressive but, for
current purposes, too prolific to permit detailed comment. As a general trend
though, his particular brand of modernism—as a composer who sets out to challenge
tradition—is reflected in this genre yet, quite naturally, has evolved over time. Looking
back, the piece that really established him as a force to be reckoned with was Kraft
(1983–1985), an explosive work of enormous physical power and a true embodiment
of his early maxim that ‘only extremes are interesting’. It conveys an overriding sense
of a vastness of space opening up over time, pursuing a preoccupation with rather
 Contemporary Music Review 359
more architectural concerns. Kraft has assumed (and retained) something of a cult-like
status, given the sheer complexities involved; indeed, it was performed in 2013 in
Volkswagon’s Die Gläserne Manufactur (‘Transparent Factory’) in Dresden, perhaps
making Lindberg something of an urban spaceman! Its successors, the trilogy Kinetics,
Marea, Joy (1988–1991), build upon those formal issues, though the physical momen-
tum of Kinetics stems more from a duality in its harmonic thinking; this arises from a
focus on spectral organisation, resulting in a new balance between consonance and dis-
sonance. A pivotal work, which seems both to distil these experiments yet pursue a new
interest in temporal narrative, is the extensive, 40-minute orchestral piece: Aura
(1993–1994). There is a sense of directness, clarity, formal balance and—perhaps
above all—linearity in this work, where each of its four movements retains its own
identity yet form a direct succession, as they are played without a break.
Aura makes clear references to a symphonic model alongside that of the concerto-
for-orchestra, though typically it never fully embraces either genre. Continuity emerges
through temporal transitions, while contrast is articulated in a block-like architecture;
this particular blend of both horizontal and vertical organisation is creatively reinter-
preted in subsequent works. Most immediately, Arena (1996) pursues that idea of
organic growth, with its opening material proving to be the generator of subsequent
events; it also reveals a rather new preoccupation with melody—a distinctive feature
of many of Lindberg’s late twentieth century pieces. By the time of the Clarinet Con-
certo (2000–2002), for example, we can experience his most overt melodic writing to
date, resulting in a particularly lyrical expressiveness that confounded his critics. The
composer himself defines this stylistic development with a typically direct metaphor,
saying that he used to ‘hack away in stone—but now I mould in clay’. Lindberg empha-
sised this during our recent discussions, explaining that he conceptualises musical
form in a three-dimensional space, as a physical sculpting of sound. This usefully
brings us to Sculpture (2004–2005), a commission for the new Walt Disney Concert
Hall of the Los Angeles Philharmonic, where the architectural space of that venue is
reflected in the structure of the piece. Sculpture also explores various elements that
may typify the orchestral writing of this recent period, including an emphasis on a
dark tone colour arising from a focus on low registers, using a string section
without violins in this case. Sustained pedal notes that help establish long-range
pitch centres (most notably D♭) alongside an ongoing narrative of tempo-modulations
provide both fixity and fluidity; there is a carefully-judged balance between vertical
focal points and horizontal continuities here. Any summary of Lindberg’s orchestral
output suggests that certain compositional parameters—form and space, harmony
and timbre, rhythm and momentum, melodic lyricism and organic continuity—
have almost been singled-out for exploration in a sequence of developmental
phases. By now, though, a new balance has emerged, one that synthesises differing
combinations of these constituents.
Lindberg’s recent orchestral piece, Era (2012), forms an interesting case study as it
embodies many relevant issues despite—or maybe because of—its rather compressed
duration (c.18 minutes). Even its title, typical of the composer’s penchant for single-
360 T. Howell
word brevity with wide-ranging implications, confronts the paradox of seeming to be
small whilst actually being rather extensive. Era is an encapsulation. (From the Latin
‘Aetas’, ‘era’ means an age, stage, period of life: ultimately it means time.) In our
recent conversation, Lindberg explained that he can struggle to find the right title
for a work, wanting it to be simple and direct to draw listeners in but also seeing
value in a degree of ambiguity, as this creates a sense of anticipation for them. For
Era, the title emerged gradually during the compositional process, as its musical
materials were allowed to develop; after all, its genesis stems from two other pieces
of 2012 which share common motivic elements: Cantus Firmus (for solo piano) and
Acequia Madre (for clarinet and piano).8 Era is a work that evolved through ever-
expanding genres (solo instrument, chamber music, full orchestra) and over ever-
increasing timescales, but essentially this is just a more codified example of a typical
trait. Lindberg’s working method involves the writing of numerous, extensive
studies that explore the compositional potential of his material in different contexts
(textural, registral, rhythmical and so on), testing its capacity for extending time
and opening up space. He talks about ‘cultivating’ his material, letting it grow, creating
a tension between organic expansion and the need to ‘shape’ and control things. All
this seems reminiscent of Sibelius’ working methods and his famous remark: ‘I am
a slave to my themes and submit to their demands’ (in Ekman, 1936, p. 239).
Era was a commission to mark the 125 years of the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam—
both the building and its eponymous orchestra—and the title refers to events over this
period, centred within that place. After all, 1897–2012 was a highly significant era in
musical history, and certainly a most untidy period from a stylistic point of view: it
was enormously diverse. Translated into a single composition, when listeners are pre-
sented with a large number of disparate elements within a piece of relatively short dur-
ation, their awareness of timescale is heightened. How Lindberg chooses to address this
in his own music is interesting. Stylistically, Era is undoubtedly written in a contem-
porary idiom, but it consciously makes reference to music of the past: Sibelius, Schoen-
berg, Stravinsky, Mahler, Debussy and Strauss, to cite the most obvious, are all pressed
into service. Snapshots of modern music are somehow distilled into a single piece: a
kind of ‘rogues gallery’, if you will. As a temporal narrative though, this is less of a
family album, and not even a photomontage, but something altogether more cine-
matic. Essentially, Era is the twentieth century in (less than) 20 minutes: a kind of
time capsule. It is almost as if Lindberg’s youthful maxim that ‘only extremes are inter-
esting’, manifests itself here in terms of timescale—historically, stylistically and
musically.

Era: The Stretching of Musical Time

Era definitely forces us to question the passing of time. Externally, due to the range of
stylistic and gestural references, it is almost as if the pluralism of twentieth-century
music is seen to subscribe to a larger, background trend, made evident through a suc-
cession of allusions to other musics. This offers a perspective we can perhaps only gain
 Contemporary Music Review 361
in hindsight, looking back over this period from a twenty-first century vantage point
and retracing a modernist’s journey. Lindberg himself comments on the overt refer-
ence of his opening gesture to that of Sibelius’ Symphony No. 4, and we experience
the overall progress of Era as an organic unfolding of the compositional potential
arising from these initial materials. What is so fascinating is the way in which that
direct evocation of Sibelius gradually subsides as the piece evolves: Era ends, uncom-
promisingly, as being the music of its creator. It charts something of a stylistic journey,
from early twentieth century Sibelius—to thoroughly contemporary Lindberg. Our
perceptions of time passing assume both a more global dimension (of twentieth-
century styles) and a specific focus on modernist developments in Finland.
The equivalent is true within a more localised time-frame. Internally, Era explores
the interaction of two levels of motion: a single tempo used throughout, and a rela-
tively faster degree of foreground activity which overlays that slower, underlying
pulse. There is a creative ambiguity that arises from these two frames of temporal
impulse, accounting for much of the dynamism of the piece. Looking more broadly,
both these perspectives (external, stylistic references and internal, competing time-
scales) share an historical precedent: the Sibelius symphonies. As well as the direct
use of Sibelius’ Fourth Symphony on its gestural surface, the conceptual framework
of Era suggests similarly related origins, embedded in a structural outline that is
hidden from view. A slow-moving, underlying pattern overlaid by fast-paced surface
activity makes a very direct comment on another Sibelian archetype: the single-move-
ment, quasi-fantasia of Symphony No. 7. In (what was to be) his last symphony, Sibe-
lius was interested in creating a synthesis of the typically segregated tempo-contrasts of
the traditional model, by superimposing layers of contrasting tempi to produce a fun-
damentally unified design. Faster, apparently distinctive material actually articulates an
underlying large-scale formal scheme: its surface ‘contrasts’ come to subscribe to an
underlying continuity. Listeners perceive this duality and/or complementarity
through a balance, respectively, between immediacy and hindsight: short-term
reactions, versus long-term assimilation.
As an aside, something of Sibelius’ reluctance to acknowledge that the Seventh was
indeed a ‘symphony’ is magnified in Lindberg’s complete avoidance of the label; he’s
written a number of large-scale orchestral works, but has always shied away from
calling them symphonies, even in multi-movement examples.9 More directly, with
the Fourth being Sibelius’ most daring symphonic experiment in tonality and the
Seventh offering the equivalent in structural terms, Lindberg’s choice of (Finnish)
references is highly perceptive, implying that his own modernist attitudes build
upon precedents from an earlier era. On a number of levels, the idea of ‘fantasy’—
of music that is quite literally fanciful—seems apposite when gauging our instinctive
response to a performance of Era though, ultimately, it stands as a rather profound
reinterpretation of earlier symphonic thinking. This aim of drawing-in listeners
through an immediate, surface appeal—in order to channel their experience into
something far more deep-rooted and intellectual—is all part of a fundamental
duality which forms the basis of this piece. Lindberg’s comment on Era, about a
 362
T. Howell
Figure 1 Era (2012), Formal Overview.
 Contemporary Music Review 363
slow ‘background’ versus a faster ‘foreground’ is relevant here. It sits alongside his pre-
occupations with registral concerns: ‘the music evolves from the bass line, moving
from low to high register’. Together, they compositionally evoke the idea of temporal
and spatial domains held in a creative balance.
Consequently, a pairing of opposites that emerge from the concept of an ‘Era’ may
be summarised as follows:
now then
time space
foreground background
fast slow
development statement
horizontal vertical
fleeting sustained
disruptive continuous
varied repeated
‘chromatic’ ‘diatonic’
wind strings

Such pairings have the potential to be dualistic and conflicting or interrelated and
complementary, once again exploiting an ambiguity between the apparent and the
actual. A lot of the surface energy in Era seems to arise from exploring the competing
demands of its different materials, accounting for much of the activity in the piece.
Overall though, the potential for a complementary, symbiotic relationship to
emerge gradually over time helps explain something of the sense of resolution that
is implicitly reached at its close. To differentiate between conflict as a spatial phenom-
enon, with complementarity as a temporal process, is perhaps to oversimplify matters.
This music is in a constant state of flux, as its competing elements negotiate for their
rightful place within either or both of these structural narratives. Nevertheless, it might
provide a starting point, a way into this complex soundworld, as part of a more analyti-
cal investigation of the workings of Era.

Spatial Positions: Articulation and Architecture

Figure 1 provides a diagrammatic summary of the formal outlines of the piece, a guide
for anyone seeking to grasp a sense of the work as a whole. Identifying architectural
blocks of differing characters (within and between component sections) is a plausible
way of gaining an overview; it offers a personal interpretation, though one that is easily
verified by other listeners when followed through with a score.10 However, as will be
seen later, this particular focus on vertical divisions is just one route into a piece that
applies a range of approaches to the structuring of its materials. On the largest scale,
there are three main sections of essentially equivalent duration (at about 6 minutes
each). Yet the ambiguities surrounding our perception of musical (rather than
‘clock’) time become immediately apparent and even counting up bar numbers is
not really useful, given the fluctuating tempi involved. Perceptually, the nature and
364 T. Howell
density of events contained within those three ‘equivalent’ time-spans, varies consider-
ably. Qualifying these formal stages in terms of statement, fragmentation and synthesis
helps to differentiate in this regard, with each metaphor having a distinctive functional
character and tempo implication. For instance, the slightly ‘shorter’ final section (in
terms of bar numbers and duration) actually feels far more spacious. In conversation,
Lindberg talked about the music ‘stepping out of its own framework’ as it slows down
more-and-more towards its close. The drawing together of various elements—in a
deliberately illusory, non-explicit and contemplative manner—has the effect of
stretching temporal assimilation at this stage. Reminiscences take time. Conversely,
the relative discontinuities of a central passage feel more eventful in their fragmenta-
tion of earlier materials and may create the illusion that time is speeding up. However,
these disruptions to any flow of ideas make it difficult to gauge any overall pace, or
even put down any markers, so our assimilation of time passing is challenged by a situ-
ation where any sense of continuity seems so fractured.
The main groups of generative materials that initiate the piece (shown in the six
blocks that make up Section I), encapsulate these two formal impulses of space and
time on a more local scale. Indeed, tempo-change is used to articulate distinctions
between these blocks, though sometimes it provides continuity as well; see Section
A2 for instance, where the change in metronome mark only takes effect later (from
bar 52). On a more detailed level, gestures sustained through their stepwise adjacency
are offset by those that are far more fleeting in their arpeggiated shapes. There is a kind
of reversal of expectation here: narrowness of intervals resulting in more spatial
deployment; widely-spaced intervals creating a faster momentum, almost Scherzo-
like in nature (by Section B1, for instance). The term ‘interval’—with regard to
pitch-space—is juxtaposed with its very opposite in relation to timescale: when one
is contracted the other is expanded (and vice versa). Allied to particular registral con-
cerns (a journey from ‘low’ to ‘high’ register as Lindberg defines it), alongside compet-
ing temporal perspectives (fast, surface activity, slow, background pedals), the formal
processes of Era operate on a number of layers. Related dualities of closeness/distance
(intervals), low/high (registers) and slow/fast (tempi) are played out in different com-
binations as the music unfolds. These parameters help to define both space and time.
As a result, the correspondence between the foreground linearity of local events, their
middleground grouping into blocks of material and the subsequent projection of these
as an overarching form, creates an impressive degree of structural integrity. Each time-
frame is a direct correlation of the other.
A focus on the latter stages of the formal architecture of Era may be useful here. The
‘opening’ of Section III (defined as bar 284) and the ensuing passage of music that cul-
minates in silence—the highly dramatic general pause of bar 318—are two particularly
distinctive, yet conjoined, events. Bar 284 is a moment of structural ambiguity and one
that reflects more localised instances of the same phenomena. The sense of arrival (a
tutti climax with its fff dynamic) is undeniable; it is, most immediately, something of a
culmination after the fragmentary nature of preceding events. Yet it is also a moment
(indeed, the moment) of return: the bass E-D-C descent of the opening of the piece
 Contemporary Music Review 365
reappears in a highly arresting manner. Together, though, this is a point of formal
articulation: the end of one fragmentary succession, the beginning of a next, synthesis-
ing stage. But, while in spatial terms that division is clear, the underlying temporal
process has not actually been arrested at all; after a momentary (though nonetheless
momentous) recurrence of the opening gesture, events continue as before, by develop-
ing earlier material. Bar 284 may mark some kind of structural downbeat (neatly
placed at the two-thirds point in the piece) but ultimately it is merely an interruption:
it initiates a further sequence of fragmentary recollections within an ongoing narrative.
The actual culmination, the point where both these processes coalesce, is at bar 318, the
most spacious structural moment in the entire work: a general pause. Time stands still
—it becomes space. Its silence is truly deafening.

Temporal Narratives: Continuity and Coherence

To begin to address issues of continuity, rather than contrast, brings matters of similarity
and difference into question once again. Although the vertical divisions of Figure 1
essentially arise from that basic distinction, it is not a straightforward matter. Differences
in terms of (any or all of) material, texture, orchestration, register, dynamic and pulse,
help to outline a succession of contrasting blocks which, internally, uphold some kind of
identity. Additionally, despite these distinctions, the principle of varied repetition (so
redolent within the surface-level, motivic processes) applies to the formal subsections
as well. Alongside this, there are incidences of motivic recurrences between otherwise
contrasting sections; collectively these form a network of similarity in themselves, but
the rather more arbitrary nature of the timing of such reappearances offers much flexi-
bility. Indeed, the listener is forced to question the whole idea of familiarity, as a new
context can add a degree of forward-moving momentum. Part of that principle draws
on a process whereby an initial reappearance of the ‘same’ material—the reintroduction
of the old disrupts the new—is deliberately deployed to instigate change, in an adroitly-
handled balance between old and new. Repetition, which initially may appear to be
rather static, can become something more dynamic when (apparently) similar events
are displaced over time. There is a process of developmental displacement at work
here: a technique of temporal variation.
Dramatic deflection reaches something of a peak within the central section, where
patterns of expectation and denial generate uncertainty by way of discontinuity.
However, rather than exclusively observing contrast through vertical blocks, events
here may be segmented horizontally into strata, where each line forges a path
through the apparent surface disjunction. The grouping of familiar-sounding elements
into different strands of activity can result in a sense of linearity, though it may only be
short-lived. Continuity—sometimes hidden, given the disruptive nature of surface
events—is a significant, energising force in this music. Indeed, the single general
pause in the piece would not be nearly so effective were it not placed in the context
of such a momentous, forward-moving impulse. The musical dynamism that is so
characteristic of Era arises from the constant manipulation of its cellular materials,
366 T. Howell
an ongoing process that uses techniques of repetition, variation and development in
ever-changing combinations. It results in a kind of metamorphosis over time. Given
the large-scale journey of the piece, from close references to Sibelian models at the
outset to the unequivocal modernism of Lindberg at its close, this transformation is
quite considerable. Again, it is the web of correspondences between large- and
small-scale processes that enables the listener to follow both an ongoing narrative,
through the immediacy of local events, and to chart its structural progress, with the
benefit of hindsight.
Linear continuity that unfolds over time essentially seems to work in inverse pro-
portion to vertical discontinuity of blocks of material. A further glance at Figure 1
shows how the number of internal formal divisions reduces over the three stages of
the piece: from 6 blocks in Section I to 4 and then 3, respectively. As these subdivisions
of form diminish, then concerns with tempo hold greater sway. A basic alternation
between two main tempi (♩ = 84 and ♩ = 126) operates throughout the piece; this
ratio of 2:3 is reflected in the numbers of blocks of material given above, along with
more symmetrical formal patterns. The main subdivision within Section II (from
bar 240) is articulated by a change to the faster tempo, while the culmination of
events that marks the opening of Section III (bar 284), resumes this quicker pulse
yet changes to the slower one within a mere two bars: the most extreme such
change of speed in the work. This kind of temporal impulse coincides with
moments of linear convergence; both the beginning and the end of this central
passage (Section II) are framed by a full orchestral tutti, each being used to great dra-
matic effect. For instance, the first of these (bars 130–140), marks the culmination of
Section I—an expansion, in terms of orchestration and dynamics—while there is a
contraction and interruption in terms of speed: the poco rallentando (bars 139–140)
with its comma pause. Spatial, temporal and timbral domains coalesce at strategically
significant points in the structure, providing clear moments of coherence and
articulation.
The use of pedal points in Era plays a significant part in signposting our perception
of time passing. Given their focus and fixity, pedals offer a kind of structural platform
and, as a succession of markers, they can provide deep-rooted coherence. Lindberg
himself talks about ‘a powerful underpinning in the bass, rather like a bourdon or
at some moments even a passacaglia’. Simultaneously, other events may be felt to be
pulling against this anchoring of pitch-space, which implies motion or some sense
of continuity; at the very least, it suggests a degree of tension between what is fixed
or fluid, resulting in energy and dynamism. This kind of ambiguity is quite far-reach-
ing. Pedal points have a particular dualistic quality, between what they are and what
they may become: explicit stability and implicit tension. They have the potential to
amass energy over time. Since the opening gestures prove to be the generator of sub-
sequent materials, there is the potential that even if the actual pedal is not literally
present, something of its character (defining register and pitch-space, offering coher-
ence and balance) may still be implied. In fact the number of instances when the initial
bass succession is literally restated is surprisingly small, yet the sense of a prevailing
 Contemporary Music Review 367
pitch centre (of E♮) as the focal point of Era is undeniable. It retains a kind of ghostly
presence, the spectre in spectralism—the overtones of a bourdon—that ‘exists’ in the
atmosphere as a kind of aura. The absence of a pedal point may be just as dramatic as
its presence. A balance between what may be apparent or real, implicit or explicit,
delayed or immediate—a basic conflict that occurs on many levels in this music—is
somehow codified in its pedal points. Later on, in the closing stages of the work, a pro-
longed degree of tension requiring resolution (a kind of contemporary-music, ‘domi-
nant’ pedal) is quite palpable and much of the final journey towards a sense of
conclusion explores this quality. Lindberg’s ability to ‘stretch out’ time—the end of
an era, if you will—is very striking at this point.

Foreground Issues: Motivic Metamorphosis

With an overriding sense that the broad, dramatic sweep of Era stems from a con-
tinual manipulation of its initial gestures, it is worth considering the nature of their
inherent compositional energy. Fundamental concepts of time and space are
embedded within these opening cells which, as the instigators of a motivic narrative,
provide a significant degree of coherence for the piece as a whole. Figures 2–5 list the
four main elements involved as of their first appearance; throughout the piece these
shapes are subject to constant manipulation, though something of their basic iden-
tity is retained. Motive (a) is characterised by its scalic descent; (b) is a rising arpeg-
giated shape; (c) a more chromatic stepwise-moving pattern; and (d) a turn-figure,
almost cadential in nature. Their gestural characteristics, fashioned from individual
combinations of rhythm, register, contour and orchestration, are quite distinctive—
as a glance at the score confirms.
The initial idea of contrast—between the scale of (a) and the arpeggio of (b)—sets
up an oppositional quality that recurs in various guises and over differing timescales
as the piece evolves. Lindberg’s comment about a slow background overlaid by a
faster surface is also encapsulated in these two small shapes; there is something

Figure 2 Motive (a), Bars 1–6.

Source: © Copyright 2012 by Boosey & Hawkes Music Publishers Ltd. Reproduced by per-
mission of Boosey & Hawkes Music Publishers Ltd.
368 T. Howell
monumental and spacious about the first gesture, especially in the symmetries of its
initial whole-tone/tritone constituents, while motive (b) has a far more fleeting,
open-ended quality.

Figure 3 Motive (b), Bar 7, Lower Strings.

Source: © Copyright 2012 by Boosey & Hawkes Music Publishers Ltd. Reproduced by per-
mission of Boosey & Hawkes Music Publishers Ltd.

Their respective descending/ascending contours also convey the composer’s con-

cerns for an overall shape to the piece: ‘the music evolves from the bass line,
moving from low to high register’. Motive (b) succeeds well in opening up that
wider registral space, especially in its later incarnations; at just its second appearance,
see bars 13–15, a new rhythmic guise (using triplet semiquavers) defines a wider tes-
situra and a deftness of articulation. A principle of pre-echoing later events is estab-
lished here; varied repetitions of motive (b) prefigure the scherzo-like material of
Section B (bar 58ff).

Figure 4 Motive (c), Bars 15–17.

Source: © Copyright 2012 by Boosey & Hawkes Music Publishers Ltd. Reproduced by per-
mission of Boosey & Hawkes Music Publishers Ltd.

The rhythmic uniformity and stepwise adjacency of (c) enables it to act as a kind of
punctuating device, so its strategically placed recurrences provide markers for anyone
assimilating the formal stages of an evolving architecture. It seems significant that at
the close of its first appearance, see bar 18ff, this figure dovetails with a recurrence
of motive (a) in the lower register; this suggests that a potential for motivic synthesis
is implicit even in these early stages of the piece.
 Contemporary Music Review 369

Figure 5 Motive (d), Bars 48–51.

Source: © Copyright 2012 by Boosey & Hawkes Music Publishers Ltd. Reproduced by per-
mission of Boosey & Hawkes Music Publishers Ltd.

Another, quite distinctive shape, motive (d), combines both wide and narrow inter-
vals in a chromatic ‘turn-figure’; it first appears (bar 48) at the second stage of present-
ing the generative materials of the piece, emerging from a recurrence of (a). As a
synthesis of both the scalic and arpeggiated features of (a) and (b), alongside its
notably rhetorical nature, this ‘Strauss-like’ gesture has an arresting quality; motive
(d) has the potential to be a source of resolution, while its sheer individuality
enables the listener to recall subsequent appearances. The few, carefully-placed state-
ments of this material are especially striking within the central section, as they provide
glimpses of familiarity in an otherwise rather alien, discontinuous soundscape.
Although these instances of such clearly identifiable recurrences are limited in
number, it is their rarity that makes them so notable.
To focus-in a stage further, the first part of Section II (C1 and C2, bars 141–239) is
perhaps the most fragmentary (and potentially least coherent) passage in the piece. A
short, quasi-introductory phrase (bars 141–149) provides a transition into a gestural
world that is lighter, less sustained and more fleeting. Any instances of structural
underpinning within the next 100 bars or so become rather elevated in our perception,
so a ‘disguised’ appearance of motive (a) is striking (see bar 163): its slow-moving
pedal points are offset against a fast-moving surface. Likewise, the strategic recurrence
of (c) material (see bar 199ff) has a similarly anchoring effect. Cutting across these, and
reappearing throughout the entirety of Section II, is the highly rhetorical motive (d);
this succession of some five such statements offers a gestural narrative of surprising
clarity. The listener may adopt the strategy—as is so often the case in Stravinsky’s
music—of ‘listening over the top’: joining up common recurrences to create a kind
of formal montage. Overall, despite the disruptive nature of these surface events, ver-
tical fragmentation is somewhat counterbalanced by horizontal continuities. Space and
time work together.
Combinations of sonority, timbre and orchestration also form an important thread
within any sense of continuity and coherence in the work; conversely, abrupt and dis-
tinctive contrasts in these domains can help to articulate its structural outline. A tech-
nique of metamorphosis relies on some kind of interaction between these two
370 T. Howell
positions in order to achieve the requisite sense that recognisable ideas are developing
over time. How much of the original identity of a given shape needs to be retained,
versus how much of it must be modified in order to affect change, is an ever-shifting
balance. This most obviously applies to the parameters of pitch, rhythm, register and
contour but when orchestration is involved, a more subtle degree of alteration can
occur. It is the sonority of low-register instrumentation that is so characteristic of
motive (a), though later on this is more specifically associated with string timbres.
For motive (b), the expansion of its registral compass is enhanced by successive wood-
wind-based sonorities. Cutting across instrumental families to provide a strong sense
of timbral unison (alongside its rhythmic uniformity), motive (c) is very distinctive,
offering a synthesis of string and wind colours. Perhaps most consistent of all in its
use of timbre is motive (d): its individual orchestration plays a big part in the listener’s
recall of strategically-placed appearances. Given the potential volume of sound avail-
able from an orchestra this size, along with a continuous energy and fluctuating
dynamic range, any full tutti statements of material are especially striking. Not only
do they provide moments where individual strands of activity seemingly coalesce,
but the sheer power of the sonorities involved form a series of landmarks in this
ever-changing landscape. Consequently, the listener can gain a sense of perspective.

Background Perspectives: Time to Reflect

Many of these observations could apply to a lot of music being written today—they are
not unique to Lindberg—yet this is an individual composer with a very distinctive
soundworld. Isolating constituent compositional materials, techniques and processes
does not, in itself, help: it is their creative synthesis that matters. What emerges is
the idea that a temporal narrative—the progress of a musical journey over time—oper-
ates on a number of related levels within an overarching structural framework. It is
both the intricacy and integrity of this web of connections that is critical here: a
unique dialogue between time and space. Engagement with timescale for composers
from Finland stems from their relationship with climate and landscape, acknowledging
the powerful unpredictability of nature. Alongside their respect for those elemental
forces is also the desire to exert some control over them, resulting in a fascination
with both organic growth and formal structuring. It is perhaps the way in which Lind-
berg gives shape to his temporal narratives that is so central to his aesthetic, especially
as this aligns with North-European preoccupations with design. In a number of artistic
areas (like ceramics, furniture, sculpture and architecture) Nordic design is recognised
worldwide for its striking innovation and distinctive individuality. For the inhabitants
of a land where the forces of nature can be so hostile, creating a strong degree of order
is important. It is fundamental to the Finnish way of life.
That balance between (temporal) freedom and (spatial) control was something Lind-
berg openly discussed in interview. For instance, he had originally imagined Era as a
structure of some 15 minutes’ duration; however, he found its initial gestures, when
given some space, lent themselves to a degree of ‘temporal stretching’: the final work
 Contemporary Music Review 371
became some 18–20 minutes in performance. Economy is crucial here as well. Era
manipulates a very limited amount of material which is allowed to expand and
develop, in order to challenge listeners’ perceptions of what is free or structured,
small or large, slow or fast. It is perhaps the fact that these pairings are so basic,
indeed so simple, yet are conveyed through a compositional process that is highly soph-
isticated, even complex, which underlines some core values: the balancing-out of oppo-
sites. Charles Lamb was correct in his assertion that matters of time and space are a
puzzle. Lindberg’s work, in its particular alignment of temporal and spatial narratives,
engages with that dilemma: it both excites our curiosity yet offers glimpses of a solution.
Whichever way you view it, this music manipulates our perception of how time passes,
turning something apparently intangible into a truly meaningful experience. What
appears to be rather elusive becomes highly expressive: time becomes space.

Notes
[1] I am grateful to Magnus Lindberg for agreeing to meet up (Helsinki, October 2013) to discuss
his recent work in terms of both its broader cultural context and the specific compositional
processes employed.
[2] See http://www.tordgustavsen.com for details.
[3] For my more comprehensive account, see After Sibelius: Studies in Finnish music (2006),
especially Chapter 10, ‘Out of the Shadows’.
[4] Lindberg agreed that there is plenty of truth behind the so-called clichés; he even felt that it
was more relevant than ever, as the particular engagement with timescale by Finnish compo-
sers gives them a distinctive voice in the world of new music at large.
[5] From Saariaho (2000, p. 111); see Moisala (2009, p. 54) and Howell, Hargreaves, and Rofe
(2011, pp. 81ff) for a further discussion.
[6] He also talked about deploying energy in his music as a reaction against the prevailing slow-
ness of seasonal time-change, alongside his preference to compose in an environment where
he has a view of the sea. The appeal here is that the sea is never the same from one moment to
the next—it is an ever-changing constant—and this relates to his music in terms of its rest-
lessness and a bubbling surface energy.
[7] For a little more detail about the possible connections between the Finnish language and
music, especially with regard to repetition patterns, see Howell (2006, pp. 278–280).
[8] Cantus Firmus was written for a private performance to mark the retirement of Zarin Mehta as
President and Executive Director of the New York Philharmonic (Summer, 2012); Acequia
Madre (‘Mother Ditch’) refers to the ancient Hispanic aqueduct that still channels water in
Santa Fé, New Mexico and was written for their Chamber Music Festival (2012).
[9] While there are precise musical reasons for this, given Lindberg regards the ‘symphony’ as a
compositional genre fundamentally rooted in tonality, he also confirmed more political
motivations as well. Historically, joining the Society of Finnish Composers was conditional
upon writing a symphony; he and Kaija Saariaho (as founding members of the anti-establish-
ment, Ears Open! group of the 1970s) made a pact never to write a symphony and this is still
binding today (even though the SFC has long-since updated its membership requirements).
[10] As Eric Clarke asserts: ‘We all have the potential to hear different things in the same music—
but the fact that we don’t (or at least not all the time) is an indication of the degree to which we
share a common environment, and experience common perceptual learning or adaptation’;
see Clarke (2005, p. 2).
372 T. Howell
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Howell, T. (2006). After Sibelius: Studies in Finnish music. Aldershot: Ashgate.
Howell, T., Hargreaves, J., & Rofe, M. (Eds.). (2011). Kaija Saariaho: Visions, narratives, dialogues.
Aldershot: Ashgate.
Moisala, P. (2009). Kaija Saariaho. Chicago, IL: University of Illinois Press.
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Saariaho, K. (2000). Matter and mind in music. In P. Tuukkanen (Ed.). Matter and mind in archi-
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