L A N D FALL

LAURIE ANDERSON & KRONOS QUARTET

COMPOSED BY LAURIE ANDERSON
FOR KRONOS QUARTET

Laurie Anderson: violin, vocals,

keyboards, samples, percussion, filters

Kronos Quartet:
David Harrington, violin
John Sherba, violin
Hank Dutt, viola
Sunny Yang, cello
1. CNN Predicts a Monster Storm (3:19)
2. Wind Whistles Through the Dark City (1:59)
3. The Water Rises (2:43)
4. Our Street Is a Black River (1:20)
5. Galaxies (1:07)
6. Darkness Falls (1:56)
7. Dreams (4:01)
8. Dreams Translated (:51)
9. The Dark Side (1:11)
10. Built You a Mountain (2:16)
11. The Electricity Goes Out and We Move to a Hotel (3:04)
12. We Learn to Speak Yet Another Language (3:01)
13. Dawn of the World (2:22)
14. The Wind Lifted the Boats and Left Them on the Highway (2:40)
15. It Twisted the Street Signs (1:13)
16. Then It Receded (:52)
17. The Nineteen Stars of Heaven (2:44)
18. Nothing Left but Their Names (9:38)
19. All the Extinct Animals (2:50)
20. Galaxies II (:54)
21. Never What You Think It Will Be (1:11)
22. Thunder Continues in the Aftermath (1:55)
23. We Blame Each Other for Losing the Way (:42)
24. Another Long Evening (1:57)
25. Riding Bicycles Through the Muddy Streets (2:37)
26. Helicopters Hang over Downtown (2:16)
27. We Head Out (1:50)
28. Everything Is Floating (1:59)
29. Gongs and Bells Sing (2:33)
30. Old Motors and Helicopters (2:49)
LAURIE ANDERSON AND KRONOS QUARTET: LANDFALL
STEVE SMITH
And after the storm
I went down to the basement
And everything was floating
A melancholy sensation hits you immediately in Landfall, the haunting,
frequently witty, consistently inventive evening-length performance
piece that Laurie Anderson conceived for, and created with, the Kronos
Quartet in 2013. At the start, paired violins twist just out of sync. Low
strings join, providing an earthy drone, an erratic pulse. The violins
coil and keen like strands in a raga. Something is coming. You might
imagine leaves swirling slowly, while overhead the sky darkens.
Perhaps instead you’ll see newspaper pages fluttering across a city
sidewalk.
The piece that opens Landfall is titled “CNN Predicts a Monster Storm.”
The storm in question is Superstorm Sandy, which moved up the
Eastern Seaboard late in 2012, and surged into New York City on
October 29. Now assessed as the third costliest storm in U.S. history
(after the earlier Katrina and the subsequent Harvey), Sandy
submerged streets, subway lines, businesses, and homes, causing
damage from which New York would still be recovering five years later.
You might hear that looming menace, that gloomy apprehension, in the
beginning of Landfall. It’s there, surely. But it’s not at all what
Anderson had in mind when Kronos asked her — after decades of
mutual respect and traveling in the same cultural circles — to write a
substantial piece for the group.
For one thing, despite her keen eye for detail, her knack for turning
phrases that contain manifold logics, and her capacity for collecting
stories and then sharing them in ways that make them as much ours as
hers, Anderson has never been especially literal-minded or
unambiguously newsy. United States I--IV was not explicitly about
American life, but it certainly was the product of a life lived in America.
The End of the Moon was not explicitly about space travel, but it
illuminated aspects of contemporary life during a time when NASA, the
bleeding-edge science it symbolizes, and our civic faith in that science
held sway.
Landfall, then, is not explicitly about a hometown hit by a devastating
storm, but it deals with the way we process the kind of loss that might
be caused by a storm — an event beyond our capacity to predict or
control, and one that makes a full recovery untenable. It also is about
the way we use language to fix ideas in our heads, and to make our
memories durable.
The notion of a collaboration between these two mighty forces in
contemporary art seems so natural, given their mutual regard and
common cultural circuits, that a longtime follower might marvel that it
hadn’t happened before. (At least, this longtime follower did, in a
review of Landfall published by The New York Times.) That Anderson,
one of our most original, idiosyncratic observers and creators, and
Kronos, for decades a formidable force in expanding the quartet
repertoire while spurning its strictures, had not connected previously
hardly seems tenable.
Anderson, in a recent conversation, recounted how she and Kronos
finally came together. “They said, let’s work together — would you
write something for us?” she said matter-of-factly. “And I was
horrified,” she continued in mock protest. “I don’t have the slightest
idea how to write something for a string quartet. I love your work, but I
have to say no.”
David Harrington, the Kronos Quartet founder and artistic director,
would have none of it. He proposed that Anderson write something for
Kronos when they first met in person, as long ago as 1989. He
persisted in the pursuit, and around seven years ago the stars finally
aligned. A catalytic moment came when Anderson released “Flow,” a
poignant instrumental vignette included on Homeland, issued by
Nonesuch in 2010.
“As soon as I heard that, I called her up and said, ‘Laurie, you just wrote
a Kronos piece. That’s our piece that we’ve been talking about for
years,’” Harrington said. With Anderson’s permission, he had a version
of “Flow” fashioned for Kronos by Jacob Garchik, a versatile
composer and trombonist who has created numerous arrangements
for the quartet in recent years.
“We began to play ‘Flow’ around, and have played it many, many times,”
Harrington recalled. “Eventually, we rehearsed with Laurie at the
University of Maryland, in College Park, and that’s where she first
heard our version. And slowly, Landfall began to take shape.”
Not surprisingly, the creative process that produced the new work
departed from any conventional compositional paradigm. “I think of
Laurie as an amazing collector — she collected all of these sonic pieces
of information about Kronos,” Harrington said of a months-long
process in which Anderson recorded the quartet improvising in her
studio. “She also came to many of our concerts over a long period of
time. I felt like she knew a lot about a large variety of our music.”
Speaking to the London newspaper The Guardian in 2013, Anderson
offered one more detail crucial to her conception: “[Kronos] said at the
beginning, ‘We want to tell stories.’ I said, ‘Why don’t I make something
so that you can tell them with your instruments?’” What resulted was
erst (electronic representation of spoken text), a program Anderson
developed with software designer Liubo Borissov, through which
notes played by the Kronos instrumentalists triggered words of text
that would be projected on a screen overhead.
The process of crafting what would become Landfall was well
underway when Sandy hit New York. Anderson, who was out of town
as the storm approached, rushed home to weather the tumult
alongside her husband, Lou Reed, in their downtown apartment.
Forced to flee to shelter, Anderson returned two days later to survey
the considerable damage.
lots of old analog keyboards
projectors
props from old shows
a big fiberglass plane
a crutch
a Christmas tree stand
countless papers
photographs of our dog
Anderson and Kronos unveiled their new venture at the University of
Maryland’s Clarice Smith Performing Arts Center on February 1, 2013,
just months after Sandy pummeled New York City, and clearly too soon
to have envisioned — to say nothing of created — a full-length response.
At its premiere, the piece was called Scenes from My New Novel.
Still, the storm was present. Watching in the theater, you may or may
not have felt it looming, but you couldn’t miss sensations of absence
and attempted recovery pervasive throughout what was, for Anderson,
a deliberately spare visual production. In recounting struggles with
loss in myriad forms — animals gone extinct, dreams recounted with
effort, even a karaoke session disrupted by a power failure – Landfall
quietly yet insistently evokes notions of things lost and gone.
Onscreen as well, words lost letters; symbols filled the gaps,
suggesting a perhaps futile attempt to restore order.
After the show’s creation, in recognition of the role Sandy played in its
development, Anderson gave the various movements of Landfall titles
that describe the storm’s progress and its aftermath in straightforward
sequence: from “CNN Predicts a Monster Storm” and “Wind Whistles
Through the Dark City” through “Our Street Is a Black River,” “Darkness
Falls,” and “The Electricity Goes Out and We Move to a Hotel,”
culminating in “We Blame Each Other for Losing the Way,” “Riding
Bicycles Through the Muddy Streets,” and “Everything Is Floating.”
“Putting this narrative in the titles, it was really fun to do that,”
Anderson said. “We learned to speak yet another language.” In a
similar act of superimposition — a heightening of reality, even
— Landfall on record benefits from some of the most meticulous and
detailed production Kronos has ever issued on disc. “Scott Fraser took
a year — a whole year — to mix this album,” Harrington said. “We’ve
worked with him for 28 years now, and the sound that he got from us,
the depth of sound and variety of sound — I’ve never heard anything
like it. It really became his life’s work. And there’s something about
Laurie that attracts that kind of involvement.”
What you hear on this recording, then, is a heightened, sharpened,
more evocative idealization of the concert piece: less straightforward
documentation, more an original work of art to be assessed and
admired on its own considerable merits. Along with Nuevo (Nonesuch,
2002), Landfall is among the watershed achievements of the Kronos
Quartet as a recording entity.
And I looked at them floating there
all the things I had carefully
saved all my life
And I thought how beautiful
how magic and how catastrophic.
Near the end of Landfall, Anderson assesses the losses she incurred
during Sandy, offering a tally that concludes the piece and also opens
the book she is releasing concurrently, All the Things I Lost in the
Flood: Essays on Pictures, Language and Code (Rizzoli, 2018). “I
looked at the thick binder with the lists of things that had been lost in
the flood,” she wrote in the book’s introduction. “I realized that since
they were no longer objects, they had an entirely different meaning and
that having these long lists was just as good as having the real things.
Maybe even better.”
What might have been a lament thus is transformed through
examination, time, and contemplation into a kind of benediction. “My
first reaction was absolute devastation — I’d been saving that stuff
forever,” Anderson said. “A couple days later, I thought: now I don’t
have to clean out the basement. And then finally I realized that the list
of things was in a way more precious to me than the stuff, because it
evoked that stuff. I didn’t have to look at the stuff anymore, or deal
with it; I could have this very magical representation of it. And from
there, it began to be about so many things — basically, the world is
made up of stories.”
Steve Smith is director of publications for National Sawdust, a performing-
arts incubator and concert space in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. He previously
wrote about music as a freelance correspondent for The New York Times,
and served as an editor for the Boston Globe and Time Out New York.
MAKING LANDFALL
LAURIE ANDERSON
When David Harrington invited me to write something for the Kronos
Quartet I panicked. I have no chops for orchestration or part writing.
I’m a studio composer and shape music with electronics. I sit there
playing and shifting parts endlessly back and forth until they sound
good. The few times I tried orchestration had been disastrous. The
bassoons were playing what the cellos should have played, everyone
was in the wrong register. It was chaos. Orchestration is an art form I
knew I would never master.
When I told David I had no idea how to do this he wasn’t fazed. In fact
he was very encouraging. The first thing I did was listen to all of
Kronos’ recordings. Obviously this took quite a while and it was a
luxurious step. Their range in style and subject was staggering. They
could seemingly imagine anything, and then play it.
I wrote Landfall in pieces. Over a period of about a year we did several
workshops. During these days we talked about the kinds of sounds we
wanted to make and we did a lot of experiments. For the workshops I
prepared rhythmic and atmospheric loops made of violin phrases,
sound effects, and passages I constructed with the Optigan, an
electronic keyboard which was essentially a toy made by Mattel in the
early ’70s. Sounds were printed in loops on optical discs that could be
played at many speeds. Optigan guru Pea Hicks had loaned me one of
the instruments and I had been playing it constantly, mostly backward.
Its melancholy, gritty sounds were exactly what I was looking for.
The other sound I wanted to use in this work was what I call close-up
violin. When your head is right next to the instrument, like it is when
you play the violin, you hear a very different sound than the one you’re
playing for other people.
You hear the horsehair grinding and sliding over the metal string. You
hear overtones and harmonics. In close-up violin you hear the creaking
and swaying of the instrument. Puffs of rosin fill your nose. It’s
visceral. By the time this sound travels to the audience it has thinned
out and become the classic sound of the violin – pure, ringing, and full
of vibrato. My dream has always been to bring the sounds of the close-
up violin up off the noise floor and into the music itself, to make music
that was full of the sounds of its own making, so I have spent many
years designing filters that do this and also filters that split the pitch
into all sorts of intervals. It was these intervals that were the basis of
the four parts.
I made hundreds of loops of all these sounds. My method in the
workshops was asking the quartet to play these loops acoustically,
breaking their elements into four parts. Sometimes I asked them to
improvise on top of them. Then I would go back to the studio and
incorporate these ideas.
The other element in Landfall was stories. Early in the process David
had said he wanted the quartet to tell stories. I thought, How odd that
these incredible musicians would want to talk while they played. So I
said, “How about if I make something so you can tell stories with your
instruments?” “Great!” said David. I realized right away I had no idea
how to do this. So I worked with the sound designer and inventor Liubo
Borissov and designed a system so that instruments could trigger
projected language. This system was also an elaborate code that
became a graphic element in the show. We called this system erst –
electronic representation of spoken text.
I usually use images in my work but because this piece was about
stories I wanted all the images to be words or parts of words. The
triggering element of erst worked best when the source was sudden
and sporadic so it was used in an improvised solo by John Sherba.
As the workshops went on I wrote lots of texts and they were bound to
the music in new ways. Usually I store text ideas in a huge
metaphorical story bin and once in a while stir them around to see how
they can make bigger patterns, pictures, and plots. Eventually some of
these stories ended up spoken and some projected. I made this
decision based on the fact that we have very different reactions to text
that we see with our eyes and words that we hear with our ears. So I
also built in several discrepancies and repetitions between spoken and
written, although I think you would have to see the piece several times
to be aware of this.
Landfall and the first in All the Things I Lost in the Flood, which begins,
“Language is about loss and in a way words are memorials to things
and to states. The word ‘yellow’ is a memorial to the color yellow.”
Words as elegies are at the core of Landfall expressed most clearly in
the long scrolling list of the names of extinct animals.
In many ways losing things has been one of my primary subjects, and
so the hurricane gave the work a last-minute centrifugal structure.
Landfall is about language and loss. But music for me has also always
been the ultimate art form of loss. Immaterial and ecstatic.

Like the Optigan I saw erst as a kind of notation. Landfall was the
beginning of this system; eventually I used spoken language instead of
music to trigger projected language, which created complex
multitasking on the part of the audience. Erst was also the jumping-off
place for the book I wrote, All the Things I Lost in the Flood, a series of
essays about how language and stories work with imagery in my work
in film, painting, animation, sculpture, and virtual reality. In fact this
book is a kind of cousin of Landfall in its focus and grounding in codes
and how they work.
My husband, Lou, listened to Landfall countless times as I was writing
it and, as always, had a lot of ideas. He also helped shape the overall
sound and balance between my electronic rig and the quartet in our
last rehearsals. As with all my work since I met him in 1991, this record
is dedicated to my partner, the fierce and tender Lou Reed, who never
once gave up.

The workshops drew to a close. I never stopped being struck by the

quartet’s willingness to play dreamy drones full of subtle shifts with
their full attention and playfulness too. I began to see my role as a kind
of fifth wheel, the one on the side with the stories and electronics. This
balance and role began to suit me just fine. As it turned out I got an
enormous amount of help in part-writing from their colleague the
composer Jacob Garchik. Jacob has a real feel for Kronos and was not
only figuring out parts for the quartet but tailoring them to the
strengths of each player.

Just as I was finishing Landfall Hurricane Sandy swept through New

York and decimated much of my archive. This is the last story in
LANDFALL
TEXT BY LAURIE ANDERSON
Boldface: spoken text
Italics: projected text
3. THE WATER RISES
the water rises/ and overflows / the city drowns/ the full moon/ a freak spring tide
And in our new /town/our new country /where we have/begun to live /falling /
and rising tides/Where women have just earned /the right/to combat /And the
rest of us/are /fully /armed/Which war /is this/?/What time/is /it/?/
4. OUR STREET IS A BLACK RIVER
October 2012. The river had been rising all day and the hurricane was
coming up slowly from the south. We watched as the sparkling black
river came up over the banks, crossed the park and then the highway and
then came silently up our street. From above, Sandy was a huge swirl that
looked like the galaxies whose names I didn’t know.
5. GALAXIES
Milky Way Galaxy/Andromeda/Bode’s Galaxy/Cartwheel Galaxy/Cigar
Galaxy/Comet Galaxy/Hoag’s Object/Large Magellanic Cloud/Small
Magellanic Cloud/Mayall’s Object/Pinwheel Galaxy/Sombrero Galaxy/
Sunflower Galaxy/Tadpole Galaxy/Whirlpool Galaxy
7. DREAMS
Don’t you hate it when people tell you their dreams? You know they say
things like, “I had this dream and there was this man and he was my
father. Oh no wait he was my uncle! No wait he was my father. Wait I’m
not sure.” And you say, “Please don’t tell me your dream!”
But they go on anyway, “Yes I think he was my father and he had this
bloody severed head.” They’re telling you the dream like it’s a movie you
might want to see sometime and not something that’s happening only in
the back of their own head.
A while ago I was in Germany and I walked into a huge recording studio
and in the middle of the studio was a man wearing no clothes playing the
flute and covered with flies. And there were enormous mics all over the
room and when I got closer I saw that the flies were actually tiny
microphones attached all over his body and these mics picked up every
little sound so the engineers kept saying, “Um……we can hear your shirt
rustling…can you take it off?” A few minutes later, “Your pants are really
loud, they’ll have to go too—and the shoes are deafening.” So he was
standing there shivering and playing. There were mics inside the flute
too that recorded the breath as it blew through the tube and turned into
notes.
And in the mix the sounds from all the microphones combined into a
huge symphony. And when you put headphones on the sound was really
so spatial. The breath rushes into one ear and curves around the top of
your skull in chords and harmonics then turns around and around and
blows out the other ear. So being in your head was like being in a huge
drafty barn with the wind blowing through. No it wasn’t like being in a
head filled with brains and blood and teeth but something completely
light and empty and full of wind and music.
9. THE DARK SIDE
And on the dark side of me/all the places I hid/they came together / and the
ways that I pretended / where is all the brilliant philosophy?/I had promised my
heart so many things I had never delivered/it lived inside me now/suspicious /
and small /clouds so high/they have no shadows/and I said well...um/ strange
that their voices /were rising like that/ didn’t you know that angels’ /speaking
voices are singing?/ the pope recently wrote a treatise /that said that/And on
the dark side of me/all the places I hid/they came together and the ways that I
pretended /I hated who I was/ I hated who I had become/ The ways I thought I
was so clever seemed like nothing and I was left standing there/ smiling like
an idiot…where is all the brilliant philosophy?/where was this heart of mine?/
The soft sounds/of the voice inside my head/ talking to me/like a crowd /about
to mutiny /because there’s no water/and the sun is too hot here in the
amphitheater/and water has surrounded/the world nothing between this
building where people are getting shot with regularity/ I had promised my heart
so many things/ Tomorrow I said/ tomorrow I will get you that/ It didn’t believe
me/ Didn’t like the song/ but was so exhausted it fell asleep anyway
10. BUILT YOU A MOUNTAIN
Dear small person/you have exhausted me./I am always on the brink of tears.
/I have tried in many ways/to help you/ Built you a mountain / and still /I stare at /
your destructive force /in awe.
12. WE LEARN TO SPEAK YET ANOTHER LANGUAGE
I was in a Dutch karaoke bar trying to sing a song in Korean and I was
just getting the hang of things when the software crashed and the video
background of sand dunes got all glitchy from the bad connection via
the Indonesian version of Netflix for no reason. Then for no reason it
would all come back up again.
13. DAWN OF THE WORLD
And as for the dawn of the end of the world the world ended every time I
looked around it would be over again and again and the new looking like a
complete imposter so easy to see through wearing the clothes of the old world
but standing there such a transparent gamble Looking foolish in grinning
inappropriately all the time and it was torn with the screaming you could only
hear in the supersonic ranges there were sounds in that range The cries of
those who were born and those who were trying to be born The other sounds
like some kind of scraping of furniture across the wooden floor the feeling of
being an imposter in those things you thought were gone. That feeling of being
alone and friendless and all the stupid mistakes you made and idiotic things
you said in the deepest sorrow and those things did not seem to have
changed. How can that be? If memory is always changing things that’s not the
way memory works as far as I can see the—It got vaguer and vaguer and
turned into a mumbling outside the range of our microphones. The sounds
that were gone dull frequencies where was all the brilliant philosophy? where
was this heart of mine?
17. THE NINETEEN STARS OF HEAVEN
And when you say lie do you mean the kind of lie that Lincoln told when
he was talking to the soldiers who were leaving for the front? About
how they’d be just fine and would be home by spring walking and
alive? Or do you mean some other kind of lie? The nineteen stars of
heaven matched by what they stood for: constancy gullibility and
sorrow
18. NOTHING LEFT BUT THEIR NAMES
You know, recently I got a book listing all the animal species that have
disappeared off the face of the earth called All the Disappeared Animal
Life Forms of the World.
The list is really impressive and it included the dates and territories
where the animals were last sighted. Or wherever the last fossil was
unearthed.
Now as you probably know 99.9 per cent of the species who have ever
lived are now extinct. So this is a very long list including massive
numbers of civets, big subsets of spotted lizards, every last mastodon,
the short-faced bear, the Shrub-ox, fifteen chapters on sloths. And one
whole chapter on the one-eared dinosaur.
It was amazing, you cannot imagine how many kinds of weasels have
come and gone. The publishers claim that the book is a definitive
masterpiece. In fact, according to them, the book actually weighs
approximately thirty weasels. And so goodbye to the disappeared ones.
There they go, hopping and jumping away, swimming and floating away. here at all.
Gone forever. Vaporized as if they’d never existed except for a few bones
and footprints. Nothing much left but their names. 28. EVERYTHING IS FLOATING
And after the storm I went down to the basement
You know the first letter in the Hebrew alphabet is alef. And the letter alef and everything was floating
actually has no sound. It’s a letter with no sound, a mental letter. So to Lots of my old keyboards, thirty projectors,
say alef you open your mouth and think of the letter and you start to say props from old performances,
it and then you stop. a fiberglass plane motorcycle, countless papers and books,
And that is alef.
And I looked at them floating there in the shiny dark water, dissolving.
That’s the thing with words… they leave so much to the imagination. All the things I had carefully saved all my life becoming nothing but junk.
Like in yoga class when the teacher says things like, “Imagine your And I thought how beautiful how magic and how catastrophic.
breath is filling the entire room.” Or, “Imagine that your legs are planted
in the ground and they keep going down and down under the ground like clouds so high/they cast
roots like fifteen feet down” and you can actually feel your legs doing that. no shadows/
The unbroken flow / of tears
And really they could just go on and on in this vein like, “Now imagine The bright side
that you’ve swallowed your head and it’s inside your stomach and you’re the dark side
upside down and you can’t open your eyes and you’re completely stuck /of the turning world/
there.” Things like that. if only /I could /just /
stop/thinking
I have to say that often it’s much better to talk about things than to actually there was this man/
do them. Take for example—a very long expedition to the North Pole. and there was this road/
and that man was /
You know the reason I really love the stars? It’s that we cannot hurt my father /
them. We can’t burn them. We can’t melt them or make them overflow. no /it was my uncle/ no /Blackout
We can’t flood them or blow them up or turn them out.
But we are reaching for them. We are reaching for them. time slips / The bones of the/great animals/Melville’s moldy angels /surround /
me.
And ah yes the moon and stars are up there like acquaintances I had
always meant to befriend Yes I meant to learn their names but for various the nineteen stars/ of heaven
reasons having to do with lack of time and lack of ambition I never did do matched by what they meant
that. And they remained up in the sky as nameless as if we’d never been
Produced by Scott Fraser, Laurie Anderson, For Landfall live performances:
and Kronos Quartet Liubo Borissov, erst programming
Robert Currie, dramaturg
Recorded by Scott Fraser Konrad Kaczmarek, electronics
on April 13–15, 2014, and software design
at Studio Trilogy, San Francisco, CA Shane Koss, audio rig design
Assistant Engineer: Noah Killeen Brian H Scott, lighting designer
Edited and mixed by Scott Fraser Scott Fraser, Brian Mohr, audio engineers
at Architecture, Los Angeles, CA Pomegranate Arts, executive producers
Linda Brumbach and Alisa Regas
Mastered by Robert C. Ludwig at Gateway pomegranatearts.com
Mastering Studios, Portland, ME
For the Kronos Quartet/Kronos Performing Arts
Music and text by Laurie Anderson Association: Janet Cowperthwaite, Managing
Transcriptions by Jacob Garchik Director; with Sidney Chen, Mason Dille, Sarah
Arrangements by Laurie Anderson, Kronos Donahue, Lauren Frankel, Scott Fraser, Sasha
Quartet, and Jacob Garchik Hnatkovich, Reshena Liao, Nikolás McConnie-
Saad, Brian Mohr, Kären Nagy, Brian H. Scott,
Design by Barbara de Wilde and Lucinda Toy
Art by Laurie Anderson
Photography by Mark Allan (Barbican) Landfall was commissioned by Adelaide Festival,
and Jason Stern Australia; Barbican, London; Clarice Smith
Performing Arts Center, University of Maryland,
Executive Producer: David Bither College Park; Peak Performances @ Montclair
State (NJ); Perth International Arts Festival,
Australia; Stanford Live, Stanford University; and
Texas Performing Arts at The University of Texas
at Austin. Additional project support was provided
to the Kronos Performing Arts Association by the
National Endowment for the Arts.

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