Symphony No. 9
(Orb of Life and Death)

A multitudinous dramatic life affirmation driven by an exceptionally long mantra…

The basis of this work, and the sole text for the choir and soloists, is the Hundred Syllable Mantra (in Tibetan Buddhism, associated with the buddha Vajrasattva). — But before I go further about the work, I ask the reader please to heed the following warning.

Since I composed this symphony I distanced myself from Buddhism altogether, and I recognise that this work is of very universal intent and its elements are sourced from a deep and ancient source that I feel greatly pre-dates Buddhism as we know it, and indeed looks to have very likely long pre-dated the very existence of Earth.

On the musical level, my starting point was a transcription of the chant of this mantra by the late Chagdud Tulku, regarded as one of the great Tibetan Buddhist ‘masters’ (unfortunately, I'd now regard such individuals as seriously deceived by the garbage into being effectively inadvertent gurus of ‘the dark side’). His chant, as recorded, is mostly on one note, with only occasional minor excursions up or down, but it has a strange and powerful energy. The sense of rhythmic drive has much to do with ‘vajra’ always being pronounced ‘banzara’ with the bounce of a dotted rhythm at that point.

What I really liked about this particular mantra was nothing to do with any religious or ‘spiritual’ connotation, but the way that it gave scope for variety of colour and emotional quality within a single repetition, so that, unlike so many mantras, I could actually make an extended and very singable tune out of it, which could be really interesting for performers and listeners alike, and could encompass compelling lyricism and high drama and produce captivating polyphonic and antiphonal effects — so producing out of the original ‘straitjacket’ of a mantra something organic, vibrant and life-affirming.

So, after an initial flash of light (or thunderclap, depending how you perceive it), the work starts with the bass soloist singing the chant in mumbling fashion much as Chagdud Tulku did, and this is then taken up by the choir basses. Then very quietly, out of this emerge in the orchestra the first intimations of the new melody that the choir will be singing, like a beautiful shimmering mist enwrapping the chanting bass singers.

What follows from that is a series of variants of the melodious rendering of the mantra, sometimes accompanied by the original chant or slight variants thereof. In keeping with the nature of mantra chanting, the melody itself is hardly varied apart from an inverted version sometimes being used, but the variation is more in the form of different arrangements, which range from peaceful and plaintive to wild and intense, sometimes with strange chordal harmonization and usually with various canonic treatments, and the sometimes quite dramatic use of different keys.

Whereas the main melody has a rather plaintive folk-song quality about it, the inverted version of it has a dramatically different quality, with an almost gaudy fanfare-like brilliance in its tonal colours.

I could hardly believe my ears when I first produced that inverted version and played it back — at first doubting whether it would fit at all workably with the basic version, but quickly discovering that it did indeed ‘fit’, but in most exquisitely challenging and outlandish manner, bringing a whole new level of exuberant power and brilliance to the work.

Towards the end the music subsides back into the chant of the beginning, leading to the final flash of light or thunderclap.

For this reason, the symphony has turned out effectively to make a sort of pro-self-actualization and anti-religion statement, in that the original, chanted, straitjacketed version of the mantra, as it's used for its religious purpose, could be seen as a representation of non-life, out of which life emerges, finally to dissolve back into the non-life of the religious chant.

Although the work could be seen as basically a set of variations — which wouldn't usually be thought of as the sort of structure that could be called a symphony, in practice this work shows a strong sense of direction and musical argument that runs through it, taking the listener on a powerful and uplifting journey — so in 2004 I decided to reclassify it as a symphony, particularly as it fits into the special category of symphonies that I had introduced with my Symphony 7 (Ancient Cry for Freedom).