The thing about ghost stories-the good ones, anyway-is that they reflect the psychological
inclinations of the reader. They may surprise, frighten, inspire, or dazzle, but at the end of the tale an
impression is made only if we see our own dreams, fears, and hopes in the characters. Sometimes we’re
the protagonists, and sometimes we’re the ghosts, but the magic happens in the creeping realization that
what lurks in the pages might also be right behind us.
Haunted Objects (Tsukumogami) is a musical ghost story; one that aesthetically captures the spirit of a
particular supernatural cultural phenomenon of Japan, as the composer writes:
I love Japanese culture, and wanted to write something that would honor its people’s traditions from my
own perspective. I first visited in 2007 for the premiere of Kingfishers Catch Fire, and have been back several
times since including with my wife Abby on our honeymoon.
She’s the person who first introduced me to the concept of tsukumogami, which are everyday items or tools
that, after being around for a century, acquire a spirit and take on a life of their own. The idea inspired me
to write music that alternated-and danced-between harmless and mischievous. I don’t consider the
tsukumogami to be hurtful; they’re pranksters! They’re always reminding us that they have a use, and you
should discard them with caution, as they might end up haunting you...
Haunted Objects (Tsukumogami) is cast in two relatively short movements, each of which captures the
phantasmagoric nature of these pseudo-creatures. The first movement begins with a wail of terror:
clanging percussion and dissonant clusters of notes with an insistent marching rhythm set the stage for
the unexpected. Out of this cacophony emerges a gentle, bubbling pointillism that seems far removed
from anything unnatural, except for the strange ghostly descent of ethereal trombone glissandi. A
dreamy oboe solo feigns a continuation of the musical material, but is almost immediately (and
repeatedly) disrupted by loud interjections of fragments of the opening wail. Adding to the foreboding
atmosphere, each new phrase finds itself in a shifting harmonic landscape, giving a sense of instability
and unease. At the apex of the movement, the two ideas merge, as the dreamy melody takes on the
aggressive character and shows that, in reality, the two were the same all along. The movement ends
ominously, with the monstrous side of the tsukumogami in full display.
The second movement begins with the contrast of a short, beautiful chorale that emphasizes a rising
motif, before bursting forth with a quirky dance in asymmetric mixed meters. In many ways, this
movement mirrors the first: the effervescent textures mimic those from the opening movement, and the
primary melody is once again stated in a long oboe line before being conjoined with the opening
chorale material. One might suggest that the two movements envision the tsukumogami from two
different perspectives: in the first movement, we feel the terror and disquiet of a home’s resident
suddenly aware that there may be spirits surrounding them, and in the second, we hear the perspective
of the tsukumogami themselves, with unassuming love for their home and a playful sense of purpose. The
coda of the work, however, spins out of control with velocity and fervor, showing that despite their
(mostly) friendly intentions, these kindly spirits sometimes just can’t help sending their human
counterparts running for the hills.
program note by Jake Wallace.
