Inferno (2021)
(Concerto for Solo Percussion and Orchestra)

Inferno
Percussion Concerto by Daníel Bjarnason

Anything can be a percussion instrument. A wine bottle, a slab of wood, and a ring of keys in a ceramic bowl are all among the instruments played by the orchestral percussionists in Inferno, Daníel Bjarnason's concerto for solo percussionist and orchestra.

But the soloist's part, composed with soloist Martin Grubinger in mind, is more self-contained. From the beaten skins of the drum kit, the Japanese taiko drums, the kick drum and the timpani, to the woody timbres of the marimba, the wood blocks, and the txalaparta – a traditional Basque instrument comprising a set of wooden planks – the solo percussionist draws on a narrower continuum of warm, dark sounds.

Much of this continuum is explored in an expansive first movement, subtitled "The Bells," almost complete unto itself as a microcosm of the fast-slow-fast, three-movement concerto form. Here, the sound of the txalaparta – limited in terms of fundamental pitch, but rich in sonic overtones — seems almost an extension of the sound of the marimba, as if they both belonged to one massive, wooden instrument, beaten frenetically by the soloist. By contrast, in a slow, still middle section, the movement's titular bells toll from the orchestral battery like distant church towers.

But we can imagine Daníel's Inferno, like Dante's, as a journey through the underworld. In the second movement, which the composer has subtitled "A Passage," two of the orchestral percussionists appear downstage among the soloist's console of timpani like Virgil arriving to guide Dante through Hell, or a ferryman leading the dead soul from a world of light and color to the realm of shades. The soloist joins the orchestral player, and together they play the groaning, rumbling timpani into the third movement.

In this final movement, subtitled "Dark Shores," the obsessive focus of the solo part becomes an all-consuming obsession. The concerto as a whole seems driven by obsession – a thread of drama runs from the first moment to the last, the rhythmic tattoo that drives the piece hurrying, hesitating, syncopating, layering, but always pushing forward – with the soloist at the center of it.

Where the first movement combined the sounds of the marimba and the txalaparta, the third movement sees the soloist's focus narrow to the txalaparta alone, eschewing the pitched tones of the marimba. The first movement's hints of lyricism from the orchestra – sustained lines, going against the nature of a percussion instrument's capabilities – blossom in the last movement into a heavenly chorale, totally divorced from the rhythmic monomania of the solo part. Even the bells of the first movement seem to have lost their sense of pitch, becoming monotone gongs, but the soloist carries on playing ever more ferociously to the piece's bitter end.

Daníel envisioned, while writing the piece's concluding movements, a sort of ritualistic dance of death, the percussion soloist going through frenzied, ritualistic motions while the world collapsed all around – but he is quick to emphasize that this is only his interpretation of the music, one among an endless number of possible readings.

Even the programmatic character implied by the title and subtitles of Inferno were only applied by the composer after he himself had heard the music performed, and were the starting point of his intention in composing the concerto.

"In Iceland, we don't give names to our babies immediately. We often wait many months before the christening," says Daníel. "For many reasons – but sometimes, people have decided on the name before birth, but then they decide, that's not the right name for this baby, this individual."

When it came time to name this concerto, "I felt this urge, that I needed to experience it and see Martin perform it, and take it in and really know what it is. I'm interpreting my own music; I didn't have a specific theme or narrative in mind when I was writing it." A good title, he says, "should open a door, instead of closing one."

Martin Grubinger's involvement was central to the evolution of the piece, beginning with the selection of instruments from Grubinger's personal collection. Daníel decided early on to keep the number of solo instruments relatively small, for a more elegant, dramatic visual presentation, rather than keeping the soloist on the run from one cluttered battery to another as the piece went on. The percussionist's enthusiasm for the txalaparta drew that instrument into the piece, and his virtuosity with mallet instruments helped draw in the marimba.

From Grubinger's deep connection to his Austrian roots came the sensitive, hand-tuned, goatskin Viennese timpani played in the second movement, as well as the brass chorale rising out of the third movement. Together, composer and performer recorded extensive video of the possibilities of each instrument, so that Daníel could compose from a position of deep familiarity with the resources available to him. "I think maybe more than any other concerto I've ever written," he says, "it became very connected to the soloist."

He told Grubinger about his vision for the piece and asked if the percussionist had any suggestions for a title.

"Hell," Grubinger suggested.

"I still don't know," Daníel jokes, "if that's how he felt when he was learning the piece.”

In conversation with Daníel Bjarnason by Daniel Johnson, December 2022