Although he is well-known among the French modern-music intelligentsia, composer Pascal Dusapin has yet to become as familiar to North American listeners. Born in 1955, he was an enfant terrible during his student days. He lasted only a few months at the Paris Conservatory (where he studied with Messiaen), blasting the institution as a place for which he had “a deep hatred for the entire teaching staff”. He went on to study with Xenakis, and currently is connected to IRCAM. While that background information may be enough to make some prospective listeners turn away, those willing to take the plunge will find sufficient rewards.
At its most indulgent, Dusapin’s music batters with insistently hammering rhythms (as in 1992’s Coda), and his frequently minute tonal shifts easily could try an audience’s patience, especially extended over seven chamber compositions. Another drawback to newcomers is the inaccessible liner notes, and I wish that the label had included the texts of the three-movement Comoedia (1993), which are drawn from Dante’s Divine Comedy. It happens that the extracts are from Paradise, but without the libretto it certainly feels as if we’ve been banished to Purgatory. The sound, too, is less than ideal–too dim and dry to make much of an impact.
But Dusapin fans and those eager to explore will relish much of this disc. Comoedia is very moving; its six instrumentalists form a deeply rooted, earthy base over which Françoise Kluber’s mezzo-soprano simply floats. And Kluber’s solos in Aks, with their microtonal ornaments, have a distinctly Eastern feel (though they’re based on Occitan folk material). The performers are obviously dedicated to the cause, and they give excellent performances of music that presents extreme technical challenges. Along with Kluber, another standout is Armand Angster, whose wistful clarinet is highlighted in 1991’s Aria.
