Imagine for a second: a human spirit becomes disembodied from its earthly body, joins an intergalactic mind-mass, travels throughout the universe picking up other minds from other planets in other galaxies, eventually meets the creator of the universe, and then gets deposited back into its body at the same time and place it left. This is the approximate plot of Olaf Stapleton’s science fiction novel Star Maker (to the best of my understanding — admittedly, multiverse theory tends to leave me a bit hazy). Wild and fantastical, sure, especially considering it was first published in 1937. But if someone told me that was Elon Musk’s master plan for society once the luxury space hotels are up and running...well, it’s not out of the question.
Widely regarded as one of the most daring works of sci-fi ever written, Stapleton’s Star Maker was a hot-button topic for other authors of the time; among its strongest proponents were H.G. Wells and Virginia Woolf. C.S. Lewis disavowed the wild story as “sheer devil worship”, but given that Narnia involved talking lions and a wardrobe-portal, let’s take his criticism with a pinch of salt.
Stapleton’s text is, in a way, a narration from that disembodied human spirit’s point of view. The novel reads almost as a captain’s log, a list of attributes of societies and beings from all around the universe. It seems that this narrative style was Taylor Brook’s departure point for his evening-length work Star Maker Fragments, recorded last month by the fearsomely talented TAK Ensemble. The ensemble bears some resemblance to that of Pierrot Lunaire — flute, bass clarinet, violin, speak-singing soprano — but Brook finishes the ensemble with a percussionist and extensive live electronics (he directs the ensemble from the soundboard). The sound that results is fascinating: five largely monophonic instruments, and one that can modify and add to those five instruments in infinite ways.
Soprano Charlotte Mundy plays the central narrator, describing otherworldly species in grotesque detail. At times, she speaks freely. At others, her words come in strict and intentionally-awkward rhythms. Each syllable gets slightly and proportionally elongated, almost emulating electronically-manipulated speech. Mundy’s delivery is frank and poised, a stark contrast to the libretto’s constant absurdity — her vivid description of a being whose hands and genitalia are covered in taste buds sticks in my mind. When she sings, she blends her clear, straight tone undetectably with the rest of the ensemble.
For much of the piece, Brook orchestrates the ensemble below the vocalist, supporting her careful speech and accentuating her syllables with dynamic, microtonal sound effects. Only in the short interludes that link each movement does the true virtuosity of each ensemble member have a chance to shine. Violinist Marina Kifferstein’s solo moment, between the fourth and fifth movements of the piece, stood out in particular: short but fiery, showy but not gimmicky.
The piece’s ten-minute postlude provided the ensemble a rare opportunity to spread their wings simultaneously. Brook’s electronics weave in and out of the shimmery ensemble timbre, often resembling familiar instruments (is that a saxophone I heard? a guitar?) but sometimes simply existing as a non-instrumental, but still musical force in the ensemble. Just as the ensemble timbre blends seamlessly, so too does the exceptional album art, commissioned from multi-disciplinary artist Lara Lewison.
I thoroughly enjoyed this recording. Star Maker seems like daunting subject matter, and Brook handles it in a way that is both accessible and enjoyable. Did I feel part of that cosmic hive mind? Perhaps not. But we’re still allowed to enjoy the Alpine Symphony without conjuring images of freezing our buns off atop the Matterhorn, no?
