The latest work by composer Charles Melda has yielded controversy of an entirely different manner to his offering as national anthem,
Pulias, Rise Like a Phoenix. No, his latest piece,
Night of the Roaming Dead has not attracted any political attention, but it has shocked the mores of modern society by bringing dissonant harmonies and primitive rhythms to the civilised world.
You may have read in this very paper that on the première performance of the work the audience were so shocked by the uncivilised sounds contained within that they engaged in civil disorder in the normally peaceful and quiet Haven of Peace. Order was restored quickly and some publicly called for the composer responsible to be arrested, but ultimately no action was taken against him because it was not possible to determine which law exactly he had broken.
When I asked Mr. Melda about the disturbance, he looked at me with a look of dark amusement on his face. I asked if he expected to receive such a reaction to his work. "I don't think anyone could have predicted what took place that night. It was utterly bizarre and almost unholy." When I asked why he looked amused he pointed out that the pervasive sense of unease, of being besieged, and unrestrained rage is what he had felt at being publicly targeted over the national anthem affair.
So this was the piece inspired by the negative attention surrounding
Pulias, Rise Like a Phoenix. "Absolutely," he confirmed, with a hard look behind his eyes. "Now everyone can feel viscerally when listening to this music a fraction of a taste of how it feels to be at the centre of such a storm. To be blamed when you have done nothing wrong. It absolutely rankles me. And I'm glad to have allowed some people to feel it, that they might think twice about judging others so harshly in the future." I asked if he felt responsible for the disorder caused by patrons upon hearing his work. "Absolutely not. As my friend Daniel said, these people were responsible for their own actions. They had a small taste of the rage I felt. But I didn't do anything wrong; I didn't assault anyone. If I can handle being nationally humiliated and not lash out in violence then I think the good citizens of Haven of Peace should be expected to hold themselves to the same standard as civilised people, if they claim to be such."
I explained that I had trouble working out the harmonic environment of the piece, because it really is like nothing I've ever heard before produced here in Pulias or abroad. Mr. Melda nodded, understanding completely my point, as he explained: "To create the unsettling mood I tried to avoid anything comfortable or familiar, so I refrained from employing conventional key signatures and instead used tonal centres only." When asked where he had learnt that, he looked at me strangely and explained mysteriously "the music wills itself, you know."
For those readers too timid to risk unleashing their inner animalistic selves, I shall describe the piece for you. The work is for a fairly small ensemble, or at least two small ensembles: a wind quartet and a percussion ensemble. It starts slowly, with an eerie and unnatural feeling. A darkly low-pitched flute is joined by an eerily-sounding melodic line performed by the oboe, which is later joined by an ominous bassoon while concert bells and xylophones seem to ascend into the air. The clarinet sounds like the only frail connection the normal world; everything feels strange, lurid, almost supernatural.
A sharply bell-like trilling triangle leads to a suddenly brisk change of pace. The music takes off, faster and more intense. Pounding timpani and splashing cymbals crash through the air while the woodwind instruments hold the melodic and chordal elements together. Melodic lines and fragments thereof are handed back and forth between the instruments. It all builds furiously, with a driving bassoon bass line joined by a trilling clarinet which leads to an almost epically stately affair, with gloriously tinkling bells, ominous timpani and pedal-like woodwind chords. It feels almost like an unholy or ghostly procession.
After the climax of the piece is reached a sad, solo clarinet tolls, in what feels like a last gasp of breath. The slow opening section of the piece then returns, but this time everything is transposed one tone upward, making it almost, but not exactly the same in an almost imperceptible but definitely off-putting way. After the energy runs out of the piece the quiet ending melody by the clarinet seems almost to be a statement, and that statement would be "abandon all hope, ye who enter here."
So the verdict: should you listen to this work? If you are timid in nature, or have trouble repressing your emotions, or a member of the fairer sex, then no, I say you should avoid listening to this music if it is playing at your local music hall. But if you think you can bear the temptation upon hearing the music to lose civility and self-control, then you should investigate this most strange offering from Charles Melda. I have truly never heard the like of this music before in my life. And part of me wishes that it were still the case. Nonetheless, a very strong offering from this twenty-five year old composer. But he has shared a darker side of himself than I think any would have expected lurked within. Proceed with caution, dear readers.
Portrait of Charles Melda, composer (1830)
I wrote them. 
