Samaa', for solo piano, gongs and chamber orchestra

Much of my work is inspired by places and cultures around the globe that can feel remote to many Westerners like myself. I try to write music that reflects my own experiences in these places and my interpretation of what I often find to be beautiful and universal themes, rather than be the voice of people that live in circumstances much different from my own.

Samaa’ means “sky” in Arabic. In this work I had specific images in mind for each movement.First, I recently traveled to Yemen, a place I found to be almost mystical, saturated with beauty and mystery. But Yemen is in the midst of a decade-long conflict with devastating and long-term impact for Yemenis. I traveled with a man named Kais. Kais guides in Yemen to support 17 of his family members. On a long drive through the desert, he told me a story about how he once took a public bus through Houthi territory on the way to Sana’a, the capital, and how on the way he saw missiles falling from the sky. He told an elderly woman traveling next to him that the missiles were several kilometers away and that she should not worry.

This image of Kais and this woman traveling through a dangerous war zone, missiles raining down around them, is to me sweeping, moving, and epic: a testament to the lengths people can go simply to live their lives. And while just an image to me, it is something very real to them. It is something I cannot personally describe or attempt to portray. The fear they must have felt, the urgency, the overwhelming basic need to see their loved ones. And yet I am moved by it, moved to express how I feel about that image in the work that I create. This first movement, titled “Sky”,is generally solemn and reflective, with outbursts of energy called and answered by several“incantations” which occur throughout the movement.

The short interlude that follows, scored for the solo piano and percussion, is titled “Stars.” WhenI have trouble sleeping at night, sometimes I’ll think about the stars I’ve seen in the most remote of places, in jungles and plains and mountains. This feeling of knowing I’m sleeping under the same sky I saw then grounds me and gives me some small comfort.

The final movement, “Moon,” is another specific memory, of a night I had in Iran traveling with my friend Jacob and our guide Abdullah. We had visited the ancient ruins of Persepolis that day and were staying at a 1000-year old caravanserai, where Silk Road traders would trade and park their camels to rest overnight. At some point, Abdullah reached into his trunk and pulled out ajug of wine he and his mother had made together in Shiraz (alcohol is illegal in Iran). We drank the wine underneath an arch from the era of Persepolis as the moon shone above us, talking about everything, life, love, travel, loss.

This piece is not a personal travelogue, or a love letter to places I’ve visited or people I’ve met. It’s an attempt to portray the poignancy and beauty of what I felt in moments while in other worlds, to evoke the mystery and magic and continuity of the sky, and a broader humanity that we all share.

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