The New Yorker NOVEMBER 13, 2006 - by Alex Ross


The other day, I watched as Steve Reich walked away from Carnegie Hall, where celebrations of his seventieth birthday were under way, and out into his native city. Trim and brisk, he darted into West Fifty seventh Street, fell back before oncoming traffic, bopped impatiently in place, then darted forth again. He soon disappeared into the mass of people, his signature black cap floating above the crowd. Perhaps I should have lamented the fact that one of the greatest living composers was moving around New York unnoticed, but lamentation is not a Reichian state of mind, and I thought instead about how his work has blended into the cultural landscape, its repeating patterns and chiming timbres detectable all over modern music. Brian Eno, David Bowie, David Byrne, and a thousand DJs have paid him heed. On Fifty-seventh Street, Reich-inflected sounds may have been coursing through the headphones of a few oblivious passersby.

Three decades ago, New York's leading institutions would have nothing to do with Reich. A riot broke out when Michael Tilson Thomas presented Four Organs at Carnegie in 1973: one woman tried to stop the concert by banging on the edge of the stage with her shoe. Now uptown is lionising the longtime renegade. His birthday fell on October 3, and, in the ensuing weeks, Carnegie joined ranks with three other organisations to present a citywide festival. BAM began, with a program of Reich dances, choreographed by Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker and Akram Khan. Then the Whitney hosted a four-hour marathon, ranging from the eruptive It's Gonna Rain (1965) to the medievally pure Proverb (1995). Carnegie took up the baton with a four-day weekend of concerts, including Reich's most recent composition, Daniel Variations, written in memory of the slain journalist Daniel Pearl. Lincoln Center finished, with You Are (Variations), Tehillim, and The Cave.

The central event was a grand concert at Carnegie. Pat Metheny played Electric Counterpoint, the Kronos Quartet played Different Trains, and Steve Reich and Musicians played Music For 18 Musicians. The last is often pronounced Reich's masterpiece, and on this occasion, swathed in Carnegie's reverberant acoustics, it unfolded like a dreamscape, its piano and percussion pulses dissolving in a blur, its attenuated melodies shimmering in a haze of resonances, its rich chords suspended for long moments. At one point, the composer walked away from his piano and stood for a moment in a corner, watching his thirty-year-old wonder unfold. As the scattered rock stars in the audience might have attested, you can't get any cooler than that.

Reich's eureka moment occurred in the mid-1960s, when he was living in San Francisco. He had taped a street preacher named Brother Walter shouting "It's gonna rain!" during a sermon on Noah and the Flood, and he looped those words on two tape recorders. When he pushed play on both machines, he found that one was running slightly faster than the other, so that the loops went out of sync. The machines began writing contrapuntal patterns in the air, an electronic canon for two raging voices.

The eighteen-minute tape composition that Reich extracted from this accident is ominously compelling in itself, but his masterstroke was to apply the going-out-of-phase trick to instrumental music, in Piano Phase (1967), for two pianos. I heard that simple, stunning piece three times last month: at BAM, in its original version; at the Whitney, in a version for two marimbas; and at Carnegie, in a version created by the percussionist David Cossin, who plays it on digital sound pads. (A video of Cossin playing the other part was superimposed, giving him a Vishnu-like, four-armed appearance.) The opening section uses only the notes E, F-sharp, B, C-sharp, and D, which, when run together in rapid patterns, suggest the key of B minor. Halfway in, the note A is added to the series, tilting the harmony toward A major. This small change never fails to have a brightening, energising impact. Pieces like this can leave you happy for hours, like drugs without the mess.

Piano Phase, along with Terry Riley's In C and Philip Glass's Music In Similar Motion, marked a turning point. After a spell of avant-garde complexity, these young American composers were rediscovering the elements of music - a steady beat, tonal chords. Yet their work was absolutely modern, without nostalgia, without a trace of "neo" or "post." In subsequent years, Reich kept pressing forward: in Drumming, he applied what he called "music as a gradual process" on a symphonic scale; in Tehillim, he blended his modern language with ancient Hebrew cantillation; and in Different Trains and the video operas The Cave and Three Tales he competed with hip-hop innovators in combining recorded samples with live music. To hear the majority of Reich's work in a few weeks was to be amazed by the Stravinsky-like precision of his solutions to a wide array of musical problems. One issue he has never fully resolved, though, is how to present amplified music in traditional halls. The superb Los Angeles Master Chorale, in particular, was hampered by muddy sound in Alice Tully Hall.

In the most recent pieces - You Are (Variations), Variations for vibes, pianos, and strings, Daniel Variations - Reich has consolidated four decades of invention. Neon-lit textures have given way to dense, dusky landscapes, with tender lyrical passages at the heart of each piece. It's as if Reich were finally letting himself look back in time, perhaps even indulging a secret Romantic urge. Yet, in the tribute to Daniel Pearl, there is also a new influx of coiled power: fleets of pianos and percussion tap out telegraphic patterns, warning of the next big crash.