Present Music Goes ‘Wild’ (2025)

One of the great things about going to a Present Music concert is that you’ll usually be heading to one of two sleek, sexy venues: the Milwaukee Art Museum or Jan Serr Studio. The latter, site of the most recent concert, has even more of a sense of event, as you pack into the elevator and ascend to the sixth floor, greeted by the space with windows looking out onto the city.

The recent program, “Into the Wild,” featured a large ensemble for its entire duration, conducted by David Bloom. The concert kicked off with a tongue-in-cheek arrangement by David Lang of Steppenwolf’s “Born to Be Wild.” While the ensemble bustled along, violinist Ben Russell delivered the lyrics in a spoken deadpan to humorous effect. The arrangement had some pleasing touches, like a pattern of violin arpeggios leading to a little vibraphone ting at the top. Some of the music suggested more wildness waiting to break out than the narrator’s delivery implied.

Kamran Ince has a unique, special relationship with Present Music. A full page of the program listed his 17 commissions for the group, dating back to 1992. His newest, then, nothing, for violin and ensemble, was a meditation on death and the uncertainty of the afterlife. A serene opening section gave way to blunt outbursts that seemed to portray the chaos of the unknown. Many moods were traversed, from big moments of world-weary pathos to a fateful march and agitated violin cadenza. One of my favorite sections was one of peace, with beautiful low-string resonances underpinning the violin solo. I was impressed by Ince’s economy of material and his effective use of repetition of segments after pauses, like replaying a video clip to let it sink in more. As soloist, Ben Russell had a modern, direct sound, with no old-world indulgence. His bowing was curiously shaky at times, yielding some rough tone. But he ably delivered the emotional content of the piece. It was a strong, thought-provoking work and a satisfying addition to Kamran Ince’s long Present Music legacy.

Groove Master

Copper Canvas reflected composer Andy Akiho’s status as a groove-master. The syncopated, dancing groove first introduced in the piano and vibraphone, was tightly played by John Orfe and Alex Wier, respectively. In tutti sections, the ensemble fully locked in.

While the overall feel of the groove persisted for quite some time, some really lovely instrumentation stood out: a break with harp and pizzicato cello, a brief horn solo, and a recapitulation section with long tones for the horn and saxophone that created a sense of something epic. This kind of music sounded great in front of the window looking out onto the high-rises of the East Side. The program note suggested a lot going on: exploring the prime number 29, also the periodic number of copper, manipulating a pitch set, and adding instruments to a growing design. But as pure music, it also worked.

The second half of the concert introduced me to Carla Kihlstedt, a musical artist I will remember for a long time. Her song cycle 26 Little Deaths, based on a macabre alphabet book by writer/illustrator Edward Gorey called The Gashlycrumb Tinies, was simply a tour de force. Kihlstedt both sang and played violin solos throughout, dressed in stockings, boots and a newsboy cap to place herself in a Victorian mood. For those unfamiliar with the book, each letter is accompanied by a child character meeting their death in some odd way (“F is for Fanny sucked dry by a leech”). Gorey’s drawings often make the children look as small as possible compared to a giant wall, rug, or body of water, all filled in with oppressive black pen textures. In this performance, the images and text were projected above the players.

I could write thousands of words on just this piece, but I think the best way in is to mention Kihlstedt’s comments during a break after the first few movements. This in itself was great, as she used her background in rock to serve as sort of an emcee and to give the audience permission to react as they wanted to the often-hilarious images and effects. She mentioned how curiosity and compassion drove her creative process.

That was one of the biggest takeaways for me; her lyrics showed her imagination in getting into the psychological states of these imaginary characters. “Death by Peach” became a reflection on gluttony and addiction. In “The Problem of the Tower and the Clouds”, a character meditates on perspective and insignificance: “From space, the mountain is only the Braille of the earth and I am just a mote, not even…” By letter Z, a death from drinking too much gin, the text started to break the fourth wall: “We’ve gone from A to Z. It’s been a harrowing day” and Kihlstedt again invoked the sense of compassion with the line “’Cuz even if you’re not really real, you know how I feel.”

Beautiful Musical Colors

While all songs were Kihlstedt’s original compositions, she shared some of the arranging duties for this instrumentation with composer friends. The musical settings further ennobled the characters. Beautiful colors in the instrumentation brightened up Gorey’s bleak black-and-white drawings. Some songs, particularly the ones set in nature scenes like a snowy forest or out at sea, were disarmingly beautiful and meditative. Other moments went full tilt with a mood. A death of “wasting away” came alive with slinky, lazy jazz and a full-on Dixieland band preceded a death trampled by patrons of a saloon. “Stupid Fort,” a death from “fits,” used text from her own son during a tantrum. She turned this into an apocalyptic, tragic thing that conveyed a compassion for how, as a child, sometimes dumb things seem so important.

I have to mention some of the extended techniques too. The song about being sucked dry by a leech was full of creepy sucking sounds from the brass and Kihlstedt’s mouth. “Train of Thought,” a death by train, used brake drums and some other percussion to create a perfect train-crossing sound. In “Quagmire,” the players left their chairs to call out the name of Quentin, the character who had sunk in a mire. They gathered around the piano, peering down as if into the mud, and sang wordless choruses.

Carla Kihlstedt herself was an incredible performer, strong as a singer, violinist, and actor. At the end of “Death by Peach” she started a little vocalize and then threw the sound to the back of her mouth for an amazing effect.

I really can’t say enough good things about 26 Little Deaths. It gave us a kaleidoscope of moods, exploring death in ways that were both silly and serious. Each song was musically distinct and psychologically vivid. Carla Kihlstedt seems like a person who is bursting with creativity, and I can’t wait to see what she tackles next.

In nine years of attending Present Music concerts, I have yet to hear one that wasn’t great. This one summed up the group’s strengths: winning music, skilled musicians held together by Bloom’s conducting, diving into new musical worlds with absolute commitment every time. I applaud the artistic staff for finding repertoire that avoids being either too safe or too extreme, just right for stretching audience’s ears while containing conventional beauty. But as a voracious consumer of contemporary music from the New York and Chicago scenes, sometimes I wish they would venture farther into the deep end, “into the wild”, to use the goodwill built up with this audience over decades to take a risk with something truly out of this world.