Bang on a Can All-Stars, Gyan Riley, and Special GuestsTerry Riley 90th Birthday TributePioneer WorksMay 4, 2025Brooklyn
This month, Terry Riley completes his ninetieth circuit around the sun. He is one of the great American musical artists, steeped in jazz (it’s how he made his living for a while) and rock, a truly essential figure in the mid-twentieth century California avant-garde—as not just a friend of and collaborator with La Monte Young but one of the founders of the San Francisco Tape Music Center—and a sui generis syncretic musician who was part of many things but a member of nothing other than his own, personal genre.
Riley changed the course of modernism at the Tape Center in 1964 when he and an ensemble that included Steve Reich, Pauline Oliveros, and Morton Subotnick premiered his In C, and in that moment created minimalist music. For Riley, it was accidental—although Reich would go on, through the Center, to establish minimalist music as a genre—his score, with its fifty-three small cells of music meant to be played in order and with each repeated an indeterminate number of times, defines a substantial amount of minimalism as a way to make process music. But that wasn’t his goal, and as he’s explained, he was looking for a shamanic experience. Combine that with his fundamental tool of repetition, and that is the essence of his music making for the last sixty years. He connects to modernism, jazz, rock, Indian classical music, and other traditions, because he’s Terry Riley, global shaman.
The post-minimalist Bang on a Can organization’s 2025 Long Play Festival honored Riley with it’s concluding concert, with the Bang on a Can All-Stars, guitarist Gyan Riley (his son) and guest musicians playing In C, preceded by an arrangement of A Rainbow in Curved Air. This was a family affair; Riley couldn’t travel from his home in Japan but sent a video greeting, and Gyan arranged Rainbow.
That piece is known from Riley’s 1969 CBS LP of the same title. It’s a structured improvisation for keyboard, a dazzling example of his aesthetic and virtuosity. For an ensemble, it necessarily had to take on more structure, and—with the Gyan and the All-Stars’s instrumentation of reeds, cello, bass, keyboards, and drums—it had a punchy, riffing quality, a rock groove and direction. Surrounding the pleasure of hearing the music in such an extroverted, public way was the profound sense of Riley fitting into the world of music, here as a crypto- and superb prog-rock composer.
This didn’t please everyone. There was plenty of chatter in the audience about Pete Townshend. The Who’s guitarist was originally scheduled to play In C, but recent knee surgery meant that he had to cancel the engagement. Townshend was not going to be some arbitrary celebrity guest; the keyboard layers in The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” and “Baba O’Riley,” easily their two most famous songs, come out Townshend hearing A Rainbow in Curved Air. One listen to Riley’s recording followed by Who’s Next make this unmistakable.
The talk, and the way many people left after Rainbow, had a lot to say about pop culture celebrity, boomer nostalgia (the age of the crowd was comparable to that observed earlier that afternoon in Carnegie Hall for a period performance practice concert of Handel’s opera Giluio Cesare in Egitto), and just plain musical curiosity: none of it good. It was a mystery just what it was that had either turned off these listeners or left them uncurious about a chance to hear one of the revolutionary musical works of the twentieth century. So much music fandom isn’t so much about the music itself as to a style that reflects the listener’s self-image back at them, so maybe the lack of a “rock star” there to play a certain, narrowly defined kind of rock—and not what the All-Stars and Gyan had just played—just wasn’t flattering enough to these people.
Those who stayed enjoyed a sonically resonant and unexpectedly emotionally rich performance that unfolded over about an hour—the pulse was far slower than in most recordings and performances, and in the strict sense slower than what Riley indicates in the score. But so much about the piece is built on interpretation, and the results were so marvelous that it was easy to accept.
The instrumentation was a key part of this. In C is for any number of players and instruments, and if something can make pitches it can be part of a performance. The All-Stars were augmented with percussionists Valentina Magaletti and Clara Warnaar, Krishna Bhatt playing sitar, Suphala at the tablas, and original All-Star guitarist Mark Stewart was there, along with composer Michael Harrison at a second keyboard and the great jazz flutist Nicole Mitchell. A lot of recordings of the piece, including the original 1968 Columbia album, have a jangly, bright quality, with more brass or orchestral instruments. This performance had a richer, darker quality, and when all the strings were in unison there was a tactile wall of overtones.
Interpretation is not just in the tempo, but things like phrasing and dynamics. The choices about those details, and how they’re used, add up to musicality, and his was a deeply interpreted and incredibly musical performance. There’s not a lot of space in the music for players to even choose variations in how to articulate notes and connect them, and there’s no dynamic markings. But these musicians found a way to work all that in. The dynamics created the kind of dramatic power usually heard in things like Beethoven symphonies; the textures would thin out as the musicians let smaller groups—cello/sitar/tabla or guitars/bass—play, and listened to them. They then rebuilt exhilarating bursts of emotion and satisfaction as everyone leapt in again. With everyone on the final cell, a repeated minor third, they brought the volume down then up again several times, waves of sonic beauty and expression. This was In C beyond what one had imagined was possible, and fitting for a musician for whom everything seems possible.