Faithful to his instruments - the electric bass and the computer - and clinging to his convictions - a live-generated electronic sound - Kasper T.Toeplitz (b. 1960) composes and plays music that today irrigates all areas of the artistic scene: witness an impressive discography and a profusion of transdisciplinary projects that multiply collaborations, both artistic and human. In the wake of the pandemic, the musician talks to us about a personal experience of time from which he wants to reap the benefits.   

Michèle Tosi: Thank you Kasper for agreeing, for the second time, to answer my questions. Back in 2012, we talked about Noise, bassComputer and live electronics. Have your tools changed since then, and have your orientations evolved with time and practice?
Kasper T.Toeplitz : It's difficult to say; with advances in computing, there have inevitably been modifications in my tools, an evolution perhaps in my sound research on the computer, but there hasn't been any radical change in my practice, and it's the same furrow I'm digging today. Let's just say that the tools remain what they are - the bass I had custom-made (by luthier Philippe Dubreuille) some fifteen years ago, and the Max software, still accompany me in my music; it's the circulation I have with them that evolves and the thought of a music that takes on more and more meaning over time. I have the impression that the musical world has changed quite a lot, or perhaps it's my own vision of music that has become clearer... In any case, I feel I'm doing things differently.

Can you tell us about your vision of the musical world?
It's an idea I've been carrying around for ten years, that of "electronic thinking", which has repercussions on the world of music. Let me explain: the younger generations have certainly heard more music played through electronics and loudspeakers than written repertoire, based on pitches and played by acoustic instruments, without amplification; and even if today there is a return on their part to acoustic formations, their conception of the instrumentarium is no longer the same as before. This is what I call "electronic thinking", a mutation in the musician's desires, in the places where sound and practice are thought out. The electronic universe has shaken up the pyramid schemes of classical music, those of the composer in relation to the musicians, the conductor and the sacrosanct score. I really feel that this situation is changing; it doesn't call into question the validity of musical notation, but I would say that the burden of invention is more equally shared, or at least that responsibility is common.

Do you feel you've experienced this change yourself?
Absolutely. If I think back to some of the things I did fifteen years ago, I was still writing for one of the given formations; take, for example, the three string quartets I composed, music that is defined first and foremost by its reference to the formation. But what interests me, as I soon realized, is working with individuals, considering that the instrument is the musician's choice but does not determine my compositional project, which is a personal matter, specific to each instrumentalist.
Take, for example, the music composed for Eric Drescher, Secteurs d'interférencesfor glissando-flute and live electronics, which I wrote for my musician friend. It was much later, when I started working on the piece, that the idea of the instrument came up, as a constraint, or even a stimulus, that nourishes the invention and channels my desire. I never start a piece by laying down chords, looking for a melodic line or a sound alloy. I start with a very informal idea, where there's no music a priori, or at least no sound, and which could be a project for a painting, if I knew how to paint.

Your approach reminds me of the "image" chosen at the start ofÉliane Radigue's pieces...
Yes, it could be a good example, even if this image, in Occam, is always linked to water. I'd also mention Phill Niblock, who proceeds in this way, addressing his music to a particular person. I've done this for flutist Eric Drescher , but also for harpist Hélène Breschand and double bassist Bruno Chevillon. In the case of the trio Zinc & Copper, for whom I wrote a piece that we just premiered in Berlin, the ensemble is for me an entity in itself, almost "a" person. The technical issues linked to the instrumentarium (a tuba, a trombone and a horn) only came later. 

"Tam évaporé" by Kasper T. Toeplits for Didier Casamitjana, for solo percussion, December 2021

In your September newsletter, you mention a project at Césaré, Centre National de Création Musicale in Reims, with a modular synthesizer. Is a return to analog something that interests you?
Oh no, not really! I used to have modular synthesizers and I sold them all. Today it's fashionable; it's a pretty object, full of wires, with little lights... But that's not my world. I'm perhaps one of the few people who prefers digital distortion to analog, just as I prefer to listen to CDs rather than vinyl; the sharpness of the sound appeals to me more. The modular synth is a slow machine to "change the world", heavy when travelling and rather expensive. Musically, the solution of one computer, or even two, is much more viable and responsive for me. I spent four days with these analog machines in the Césaré studio and ended up rewriting the module I liked best (the Benjolin generator, to be precise) in MaxMSP. In fact, it's not out of the question for me to develop the project into a duo solution, with another person playing the synthesizer live.

How can I consult your catalog, since it doesn't appear on your site?
It's an old problem with me; I've never made a catalog, even for myself; I produce a lot and continuously, and I don't know what strategy to adopt in terms of classification. The usual presentation by genre and training would make no sense; I have a lot of pieces that don't fit into the boxes. The only thing I can think of would be to proceed chronologically... (sigh).
As far as my compositions are concerned, I'd also like to mention the question of form itself, which remains open to change. Just recently, during the Structure Souffle show at the Chapelle Royale du Château de Vincennes with Myriam Gourfink, I played a purely electronic, live-generated piece whose form is evolving; a bit like in rock concerts, where the unfolding can be quite different from one evening to the next, but the overall picture remains the same. In the same way, I wanted to record Éliane Radigue's Elemental II twice, versions which are undeniably the same music but which, in detail, offer differences of the micro-composition order. I've only made one work of fixed sounds, "wolf Tone", commissioned by the Groupe de Recherche Musicale (GRM) in 2013 for the Akousma concerts; it's an experiment I was keen to make, but which didn't entirely convince me; I prefer the piece to live in the moment it's played.

From the concerts you give, it seems that the bassComputer has regained a certain importance, even the upper hand over the computer.
Today, it's my favorite "voice". When I stopped playing bass, a break of less than two years, I was discovering the possibilities of live electronics, and I felt at the time that the electric guitar was a little too much associated with twentieth-century "folk music"; that's why I had my instrument custom-built, so that it could be played sitting down, using the bow. I quickly realized that all the time spent on scales, technique and comfort with the instrument had to be put to good use, not to mention the obvious pleasure of playing it; even if, for me, the computer is also an instrument. The advantage of this bassComputer is that it's more flexible and faster than him in improvisational situations, when you want to change textures and path, whereas the electronic tool requires programming time upstream. It's a bit like the piano, shaped in such a way that you can't get everything right unless you plan ahead.      

By the way, I saw that you had a duo project with the German pianist Reinhold Friedl. What role does the computer play in this kind of situation?
When I play my bass, the computer is always behind me, prepared to transform the sound of the bass guitar, but it's not the only sound generator, on the contrary. It becomes an extension of my instrument. As far as the project with Reinhold is concerned, I don't want to transform the sound of the piano, even though my intention is to use cross-synthesis, or ring-modulation in fact, a process I like. This will be my only attempt to intrude into the piano's sound universe (if I make it), the conception here being that of a duo of instrumentalists. This is not the case with the piece I wrote for Hélène Breschand, or the very recent Zinc & Copper and many others, where I only play the computer, which has a double function, that of generator and that of transformation of the sound of the other musicians - it's a bit like what for a long time was called Live-electronics; whereas with Reinhold, on the contrary, I play my bass (with computer) but in fine don't interfere with the sound of the piano.

Vents stellaires is the title of the piece you've just written for Zinc & Copper, a brass trio that claims to have developed a sound characterized by "the warmth of low brass"... Have your dynamics changed through contact with them?
" The warmth of low brass" refers to the tessitura of their instruments, tuba, trombone and horn, low brass in a trio, without the presence of the trumpet. But my dynamics remain the same. In fact, I don't feel that my music is very strong, but rather that I'm wandering through a wide variety of dynamics. There were times when I made really loud music, admittedly a little demonstrative, at a time when Noise was equated with a certain form of violence, a very assertive brutality. Not so today. And, perhaps surprisingly, I like to classify Éliane Radigue's music as Noise. I don't think it's a question of volume, but rather of path, of choice of texture and form. I know I have a reputation for making very high-voltage music, but that doesn't bother me at all, although I don't think it's true. There's a lot of fear of volume, but there's a power in it, of course, but also a power of thought! 

I'd like to mention once again Éliane Radigue's claim that low volume makes for finer, higher-pitched listening...
Yes, I can hear that... but I don't agree with her. Statistics show that musicians who have just spent two or three hours rehearsing at high volume hear better afterwards than before! It's perfectly possible to get into the sound of music that's played very loudly if it doesn't assault the ear with sudden, repeated changes. Take, for example, the harsh noise wall, a uniform wall of sound whose intensity will not change, enabling immersive, fine-tuned listening in the same way as Radigue. The music of Vomir or Merzbow, though very strong, acts in the same way. One of the most beautiful revelations - an epiphany - for me was the CCCC concert in Japan where, listening to them live for the first time, I had the sensation that I could lie down on the sound, with an enormous quietude... I think there's an a priori about volume, as if we were forbidding ourselves certain words or a certain way of speaking.

I would also mention the distribution of earplugs at concert entrances...
On this subject, I asked some visual artists if they'd ever consider handing out sunglasses to see the work of certain light painters... Often, the ill-informed public imagines that there's a desire to provoke. But they are mistaken. I'll take one last example, that of the American rock band Sunn O ))), who play without drums, at constant high volume, without aggression and in the joyful fullness of sound.

You collaborate a great deal with instrumentalists, dancers and choreographers, but your transdisciplinary work extends far beyond these two worlds. What about your relationship with images, text and canvas?
If we're talking about images on screen, I've done a lot of projects with video artist Dominik Barbier, including a very fine recent work at the Mémorial des déportations-Musée d'Histoire de Marseille, a multi-track installationfor music and multi-screens. For Art Zoyd Studios, where I'm composer-in-residence, I'm remounting the show "Paysages des enfers" in a stage version for which I asked the same Dominik Barbier to make a film; and it won't be so much a film about music as music with film.

Landscapes from the Underworld - Teaser (2021) from Art Zoyd on Vimeo.

Aside from images themselves, the visual arts are undoubtedly the universe that attracts me most. I recently began working with an American artist, Daria Gabriel, whose painting is highly textural, expressive and full of energy. A three-way project, with her and Swedish musician Lars Akerlund, is planned for the near future, which involves taking an ever-changing version of the painted canvas as a score and playing it; this ties in with another collaboration with Gabriela Morawetz, a Polish visual artist, who takes my own existing scores, reworks them graphically, implodes them from within and deploys them on several canvases; it's then up to the instrumentalist who knows the original version well to play this new state of the score, as if dynamited. Another project is in gestation with her, taking as its support the idea of space and of an interaction between music and visual representation through an evocation of the interstellar void; the detail is amusing because it's precisely the place where sound doesn't exist.
On the other hand, I've never been attracted to film music, whose narrative side puts me off. It's the same problem with theater and the linearity of the text. I prefer to work with words. I revived an old project, "135 façons de sauver la Terre", with writer François Bon , who reads texts to my music, sometimes from several books at once. 

How did you get through the months of confinement and how did you feel after the pandemic?
On the whole, I loved it! Insofar, of course, as I didn't have any seriously ill people around me, and I didn't fall into abject poverty like some people. During this period when everything came to an abrupt halt, I realized how dangerously my own artistic practice could take a back seat to material concerns - tour planning, time constraints, etc. - if we weren't careful. - if we weren't careful! And I had time to rethink the way my pieces were constructed, the way I used my bass. On a very concrete level, the confinement allowed me to optimize the efficiency of my tools, time-consuming tasks that I finally had the time to do. And in the end, I don't feel like I play bass like I used to. I've just composed a solo piece, Arche, which I certainly wouldn't have written like that without this novel experience. What saddens me the most these days is the eagerness to go back to "the way things were" and not take advantage of the fruits of possible reflection.   

Interview by Michèle Tosi