The idiom is modal and not in any of the fashionable 'modernistic' atonal or highly discordant styles. That does not imply any judgement upon such styles but is a simple statement of fact. Other composers whose sound world overlaps with that of mine include Vaughan Williams (particularly in his more elemental aspect), Nielsen, Sibelius (later works), Holmboe, Tubin, Holst (in The Planets and Egdon Heath), and Jehan Alain. Despite this, listeners to my works find a strong individual voice and neither an eclectic hotch-potch of styles nor a second-rate imitation of other composers.
The modal characteristics of my music often impart upon it an other-worldly nature and sometimes, as in part of Sunrise on Ama Dablam, an intriguing and mystifying impression of great antiquity as though it had been composed an extremely long time ago - too long ago indeed to have been composed on Earth.
Something of a dichotomy can be found in my music - wilderness inspired works on the one hand and works on overtly spiritual topics on the other. At the present time I am pointing myself much more beyond such preoccupations and towards music that has a strongly positive and healing effect on the listener.
Overall, my compositions tend towards the contemplative and spiritual, and contain less bustling activity than in many composers' oeuvres; the emphasis is on the colour and spiritual resonances of the modality and harmonic relationships rather than rhythm. On the other hand, I'm not really a member of what one might call the 'New Simplicity' or 'Spiritual Simplicity' school of composers, for much of the visionary quality in my music is achieved through a certain complexity - even in such an austere work as Meditation on the Clear Light. The basic elements tend to be simple enough - usually shortish motifs which are repeated a lot, but these are commonly built up into larger structures, much as in late Sibelius symphonies but with more polyphony. A particular case in point is my 7th Symphony(Ancient Chants of Compassion), which (unusually for my work) will remind some listeners of Arvo Pärt in the initial austere sonorities and modal lines of the mantra chant, but the resemblance vanishes as soon as the canonic structures build up into great edifices of rapturous sound.
It may sound off-putting that complexity of sound is often one of my compositional hallmarks. This is not, however, the complexity of impenetrability. Rather, it is the complexity you might observe in the form of a great cathedral or mountain. You don't have to examine or understand that complexity; you just allow the music to work its magic upon you. Visions of the infinite can be opened up both by extreme simplicity and by a sensitive handling of complexity.
My approach to form is neither orthodox nor way-out in the modernistic sense, so that those who listen to new music with the intention of criticizing will find plenty of grist for their negative ego-trips. Like Sibelius in his later important works I have allowed the starting material and its potentialities to shape the form and character of each work, rather than any preconceived or traditional or currently fashionable plan. This certainly doesn't mean that my work is deficient in form - only that there is an ongoing freshness of approach that is in keeping with the vision of each work. Some people complain that they have trouble with the form of one or other of my symphonies, when what they really need to be doing is listening with open minds and open hearts to the music and so to allow themselves to enjoy experiencing something new, rather than negatively judging the works for having different shapes from the symphonies they already know. To such people I'd also say, if it helps, forget the word 'symphony' in the title, if that is really their bone of contention.
Symphonies 7-10
I composed these works without a thought of calling them symphonies. It
was only in late 2004 during some soul searching and deeper thought
about the nature and true origin of my various works that I concluded
that I should be bold and take the unorthodox step of classifying and
renaming such works as symphonies. Actually we already have many
precedents for classifying a wide range of works with bewilderingly
different approaches to content, form and structure as symphonies, and
actually if you look at what has been called symphonies in the 20th
Century, letting go of the common attachment to the 'classical' or
romantic symphonic traditions (which were not the ancient, set-in-stone
traditions that many people fondly imagined but simply transient
traditions established over the odd century or two), then you will find
that my choral symphonies 7-10 all sit more comfortably within the
'symphony' designation than many 20th Century 'symphonies'.
In classifying a work as a symphony I have considered carefully its substantial nature, sense of structure and the presence of an abstract and coherent musical 'argument' or 'story' irrespective of whether the work has some non-musical associations in addition. Clearly the flow of the musical 'argument' in these four symphonies is constrained by the use of juxtapposed contrasting blocks of material, but it is there and in fact strong, the sum total of each symphony becoming thus much more than the sum of its parts.
Buddhist imagery does not mean Buddhist works!
Nobody - absolutely nobody - is shut out! A number of my later works
use Buddhist imagery, texts and mantras. It needs to be understood that
these are all works of universal intent. The mantras are not just
Buddhist esoterica but are sacred sets of symbols which will benefit
whoever uses them with conviction. Although these works use Buddhist
mantras or texts, in truth they are not intended as actual religious or
devotional works. After all, many composers have produced great musical
masterpieces which are settings of the Roman Catholic Mass, but the
vast majority of these are concert works of various degrees of
universal application. A fair proportion of such composers were not
even Christians, but felt that the dramatic structure of the imagery of
the Mass formed a viable framework for what would effectively be a
great music composition of non-religious and universal effect.
My 7th Symphony has some appearances of being a devotional work, it's true, but even if it were a true devotional work it could be performed and listened to as such by people of any persuasion or none. Universal compassion is not the property of one particular religion but is an aspect of the underlying true nature of all people. Therefore, if only people could let go of their old habits of prejudice and bigotry, my 7th Symphony could be performed in cathedrals, mosques, synagogues and gompas, and indeed anywhere else, with equanimity. The only inevitable difference in those various situations would be that people could invoke their own particular embodiments of universal compassion, whether it be Avalokiteshvara, Jesus, the Virgin Mary, or whoever - or indeed leave that completely open.
In reality, however, I never felt this to be a true devotional work, for what may look like a devotional state is merely the starting point for a broader vision. This must be particularly apparent from the climactic adaptation of a passage from my 4th Symphony, which in its passionate intensity seems to be saying "Look! This is about something more vital and urgent than religious devotion!" - but actually the extraordinary structure of the whole work and its highly dramatic eruptions mark it out as a symphonic rather than devotional work.
In symphonies 7 to 10 and in certain other works I use repeated mantras. In various Eastern traditions seemingly endless repetition of mantras is considered a highly desirable thing to do, as it functions like very intensive use of meditation in stilling the mind and opening up high spiritual connections. However, such practices used regularly can be highly problematical.
I have a very different approach to the use of mantras, in which their repetition is fundamentally a creative force instead of just a quietening and stilling force. My use of repeated mantras in fact reflects the creative force of the Creator consciousness itself, in manifesting as waves and peaks of expansion interspersed by phases of contraction and looking into the central core, only to expand again.
Prior to my recent organ works, nearly all my compositions had required orchestral forces and most required a double choir as well. It has often been put to me that I ought to compose for small forces such as string quartets to increase my chances of getting performances. I sympathize with that view, but to quote one Igor Stravinsky, "My art is like a nose: it just is". I compose, not for the sake of composing, nor out of an ambition for personal fame, but solely because these fantastic energies insist in channelling through me and demand representation to the world in whatever form is dictated by the content. As my musical vision is cosmic rather than intimate, I rarely have cause to write for small forces, though I do my best to respond positively to any requests for small-scale works for specific instrumentalists or to formal commissions. That this isn't just empty words is demonstrated by my having composed the very substantial work The Seen and the Unseen for two saxophones and piano in response to Paul Wehage asking me for something for the saxophone, and similarly Nordic Wilderness Journey for the virtuoso saxophonist Jay Easton.
What are the works about?
Here lies an area of popular misconception, perhaps fuelled by the titles I give to my works and indeed to every movement, which bring in supposedly non-musical images. In fact I do not decide to compose a work 'about' one particular thing or another. The Great Wilderness, for example, is not 'about' the Scottish Highlands, nor 'about' the particular mountains or aspects of wilderness that have been the images upon which each movement of that work grew. If you really want to know what that work is about, the only way to do so is through listening to the music, which will tell you in its own non-verbal language. The nature painting is only a framework for something beyond words and ordinary concepts. I saw a newsgroup post in which it was claimed that my tuba-and-organ work The Unknown was about the Composer's own spiritual path. With all due respect to the well intentioned person who posted that, that's a very narrow view that misses the main point and vision of the music.
I do use images and particular subjects often as a starting point or framework for the composition process, but all the works - even those with an apparently very clearly defined subject such as the Flapping Duck works, Golgotha to Rozabal or Et in Arcadia Ego, use their respective subjects merely as a framework or platform from which a broader vision is presented. My Third Symphony is not 'about' me personally, nor is it an expression of my emotions, even though, without my bidding, it certainly reflects strong experiences that I have gone through, and it will at times have an emotive quality for the listener. It's inevitable that any artist's works, however objective and cosmic in their vision, will at times contain various reflections of their creator's outlook and life experience. These can have great value if they are presented as archetypes which many people can relate to. They have much less universal value if the artistic creations are limited in their view to portraying or 'expressing' the relatively insignificant experiences and emotions of one transient person.