Samir Odeh-Tamimi

Samir Odeh-Tamimi in conversation with Alexey Munipov

 

Could you tell me about your new piece, Endropia? How is the piece structured, and how did it come about?

 

It is a new work for solo percussion, incorporating many samples—that is, electronic sounds—along with live electronics and live video.

 

The piece consists of six sections but with four positions. Each position is very clearly defined. It begins with two boxes: a wooden box and an iron box. These are played with an iron mallet and a wooden mallet—that forms, in a sense, the second section. Then two large stones are introduced, and this section also includes live electronics. The stones are rubbed against each other or struck together, but also on the boxes.

 

Then we have the second position: a very, very large wooden board. This section is really significant in the piece because it always feels like a moment where everything moves decisively in a certain direction. It is played with a wooden hammer.

 

Next comes the third position, immediately following: a few drums—two of them are bongos—along with a tam-tam and a large drum, and also some metallic sounds. This position is really the largest: an enormous set.

 

Behind the percussionist—Vanessa Porter, who will perform the piece, as it is written for her—stand three elongated screens. While she plays, she is filmed live, and what she plays is then projected onto the screens with a delay—while she continues playing, the delayed images appear at different tempi.

 

So, you can imagine: she plays at tempo 65, and on one screen, for example, you see 70, 80, 90—while she keeps playing at 65. That is the structure of the piece.

 

And the piece is called Endropia—from the Greek. In physics and information theory, it describes the degree of disorder, concentration, and irreversibility in a system.

 

Entropy does not mean chaos in the sense of arbitrariness; rather, it describes the tendency of systems to condense, interconnect, and gain complexity in the process. Translated into music, entropy here is understood as a process: an increasing density of material, time, sound, movement, and image.

 

There is a common misunderstanding: many people always think that entropy is only chaos. But that is not the case—it is exactly as I have described. Of course, one can perceive it as chaos, but in reality, it is not made-up disorder. These are things that arise as a process, interconnect and network—and so we perceive them as chaotic. But in fact, it is more like an incredible concentration, an increase in complexity.

 

And these are, of course, musical processes. The piece does not necessarily mean exactly what entropy means in physics or information theory. For me, it is more socially translated: if we take Berlin as a small example—how the city develops, with its many languages, its many cultures. It is incredible what happens here. That is also a kind of entropy.

 

Our perception also relates to our time: these complex communication systems worldwide, information. You open your phone and get far more information from around the world. You can read simultaneously in Russian, Arabic, Greek, and German—this is already a kind of entropy.

 

Can this be understood as a comment on the state of the world today?

 

Certainly—yes, that is the intention. But I would say that music alone cannot answer all questions. That is one part: through musical processes, I try to translate entropy musically.

 

And of course, there is also the question for me: what is complexity in music? One could say: if three rhythms are layered on top of each other, that is essentially what we often do in composition—many layers on top of each other. In contemporary music, that is quite normal. But I wanted to make this process clearer by deliberately working with different materials in the piece.

For example: what do sharp bells have to do with a concert at all? We are so used to thinking: music is music, often abstract. We can work with voices, with human voices. But in this piece, at certain points, I also use sharp bells, clearly defined natural sounds—bees, noises.

 

This too is a kind of entropy. One cannot only place humans at the centre; one can also place nature at the centre. It experiences a kind of entropy every day, as everything arises. Everything is always gaining complexity.

 

Why boxes specifically—just for their sound, or is there a deeper meaning?

 

Well: why boxes? Why drums? Why like this? These are always musical decisions. If you compose for a violin, then that is simply a violin. Percussion is incredibly versatile—you can even have instruments custom-made.

 

Here, the decision is: a beginning that is very reduced. The piece starts—I would not call it minimalist—but really with isolated strikes. It is very clearly defined between iron and wood: a wooden box and an iron box, an iron mallet and a wooden mallet. From the start, the materials are clearly set.

 

Then come the stones: iron, wood, stone. After that, a large piece of wood—a kind of accent is set: from a small box, iron, wood, stone, back to wood, but as a very, very large element. Sonically, this is a very massive moment.

 

And that is the only section where it is actually about total regularity. There is a pulse, penetrating— a moment of decisiveness. After that, it moves back into complexity. In the third position, skins play a major role: wood, iron, stone, wood, skin.

 

Yes, but there is still metal: tam-tam, cymbals, and such. The drum set simply seemed a suitable instrument to realise this work.

 

I know that you often do not start with a concept or idea, but with a drawing. Was that the case this time too?

 

For me, painting and drawing play a very big role. For every work I compose, I draw a lot. I wouldn’t say the drawings are direct—like, »this is now a part.«

 

Rather, I notice that this work helps me understand the piece more. But for this piece, I work much more with time. Of course: we composers are architects of time; we work consciously with time. But when you compose a large piece—say 50 minutes—you have to organise the time differently.

 

The piece consists of six sections, each slightly longer than the previous. The first section with the boxes lasts, I believe, about five minutes. The section with the stones: six minutes. The wood: seven minutes.
The fourth or fifth section is, I think, only nine minutes, but the final section: thirteen minutes. Roughly, I divided the time to sharpen perception: to the density, the complexity of the piece, and also to the sounds, the sonic complexity.

 

And in general: how does your work usually begin when composing a new piece?

 

Always by listening. Always—mostly. I constantly hear music in my head. I listen carefully to what I hear. And I notice that things then converge: the idea of what I want to compose and the sound, rhythm—all come together.

 

It does not happen like: »Okay, entropy—what could I do with this?« then I sit down and ponder for weeks which instruments. Of course, you have to think, but the musical decisions happen simultaneously for me.

 

When I think of the idea of entropy, strangely, a music builds in my mind that seems logical to me. Some composers need mathematical processes—there is nothing better or worse, everyone works differently.

 

Wolfgang Rihm always said: »Only the result matters to me.«

 

Why do you enjoy working with percussion so much? What attracts you to it?

 

Percussion plays a very big role in my composing. I was practically a percussionist myself. I grew up in an environment where percussion was very commonplace. My grandfather, by the way, was a Sufi singer and also a percussionist. As a child, I played along—I was allowed to participate in the ceremonies and played there.

 

Percussion has always been present in my life, and somehow it is always: when I hear music, it is almost always accompanied in my head by percussive elements. It is hard to imagine without them.
Of course, I have also composed string quartets, many works that have nothing to do with percussion. But the percussive element is a key part of my music—an important element.

 

Could we say this love of percussion is also linked to your childhood and youth in Israel?

 

Absolutely. In childhood, I received many influences, and percussion was a very strong one. Later, of course, many more influences arrived—Greek music, Italian music, and so on. One grows every day with ideas, with influences. But yes: percussion is always there.

 

I also play percussion at home every day—I may not have drums, but it still happens: on the table, somewhere, or on a drum. It is simply present.

 

Let’s talk about how your musical language developed. In an interview you once said it was »clearly formed from the beginning.« What did you mean at the time? And can you describe what you were searching for musically?

 

It’s a complex question, not easy to answer. For me, the first question is: what did I actually mean when I said it was »clearly formed from the beginning«? Perhaps that isn’t entirely accurate. I think what I meant was that from the start I had my own language—or at least wanted to pursue my own language.

 

As I said: there are always influences. I am someone who comes from a different world, arrives in Europe, and is confronted with classical Western music. Of course, I knew Beethoven and Tchaikovsky. But I only encountered modern music in Europe. And I quickly realised that modern Western music—the development of twelve-tone music, serialism, and so on—probably could not have existed without all these other cultures in the world.

 

To put it simply: Scelsi with Asian music, Ligeti with African rhythms, Xenakis with gamelan music… Many composers were influenced by other cultures. And so I quickly realised: I am not an imitator. I am actually a part of this system. I am not »just« an Arab person from Israel who comes to Europe, learns it, and then starts imitating. I understood that from the very beginning: I am a part of it.

 

Klaus Huber also engaged with Arabic music, as did many other composers. Xenakis never really mentioned it—but he intensely studied gamelan music. Scelsi, certainly. Berio as well. Do you see what I mean? I find my language without imitating. Learning—yes. But not imitation.

 

Every composer has a field in which they feel comfortable. What is your field? Where are the boundaries of your interests, and what do you strive for?

 

I can answer it like this: every time I encounter a great artist who fascinates me, it changes me.

 

I would not say today: »This is it.« I listened to music by Scelsi or John Cage—it changed me forever. I saw art by Jannis Kounellis—and it changed me forever.

 

I do, of course, have a clear musical language. It may not change fundamentally, but it evolves. It changes in nuances—through influences, through experience. If I compare today’s pieces with my early works: today I work with time very differently. But my musical language has remained at its core.

 

And I see that as a positive thing. Think of Picasso with his phases: you always recognise Picasso—whether the drawings at twelve or the last paintings at ninety-three. Everyone recognises: that is Picasso.

 

Many people experience your music as very intense—with a lot of energy.

 

Yes. My music naturally reflects my emotions, my personality, my way of expressing myself. Some people speak quietly and slowly; others are loud and fast. Similarly, there are artists who work with grand gestures, with black paint—and then there is Miró, who works more with symbolism. I think: that is simply a way of expressing oneself. And that is how I express myself.

I want my music to have impact, to move people.

 

I am very interested in the moment when you decided to become a composer. If I understand correctly: when you came to study in Germany, you were not yet very familiar with contemporary music. And yet you decided to become a composer—a modern composer. That is a very specific profession. It seems almost as if you jumped into it without really knowing what that world was. Why?

 

I actually tried to compose from the very beginning—as a child, as a teenager. When I started learning instruments, I also started composing. At twelve, thirteen, fourteen, I did not really know the »profession« of composer. But I made music—I played things I had just created.

 

I was not aware that »being a composer« is a profession. I simply composed. Only at sixteen, when someone approached me to set a poem for a choir, did it become conscious for me. That was the first time I thought: Ah, okay—I am now composing for people who will sing this music.

 

I had played music alongside it, but that was an important moment: I thought, no, this is right. I am a composer, and I want to do this professionally.

 

So I came to Europe. And of course, that took time, because—as I said—I did not want to imitate. Why should I imitate Arabic music that has already been composed? Or imitate classical Western music? You cannot imitate Beethoven. I saw no point in that, until in Kiel at the Music Institute I happened upon Schönberg. When I saw this score, it became clear: Aha, here is something I do not know.

 

Then I quickly discovered Lutosławski’s music. At first, I really went through the Polish school: Lutosławski, Penderecki—everyone. Afterwards, I gradually discovered Scelsi, Xenakis, John Cage, and all these people. And then the decision came: even though I came to Germany to study composition, only then did I know: now it begins.

 

But for you, was the biggest shock really the Schönberg piece you discovered in Kiel?

 

It was not really a shock in that sense. It was an overwhelming surprise. Not a shock in the sense of: »What is this?«—but a surprise that went beyond the system I knew as classical Western music.
I come from a different world. I know many modes, I also studied Greek modes. And then it was clear: Aha, this opens a new door for me—away from these major-minor systems. Aha, this music is twelve-tone! Then we got books on twelve-tone music, and I began to study and discover them piece by piece.

 

But Schönberg was still classical. The overwhelming surprise was Lutosławski.

 

And then I thought: »Wow«—with the quarter-tones, all these things, this world of sound. It moved me greatly, and I knew: there is much more. So I began to research and study consciously.
And then, when I discovered my former teacher Younghi Pagh-Paan, it was a similar moment: these Korean influences—and I immediately understood: this works for me too.

 

How did ancient philosophy—and antiquity in general—become an interest for you? Why did an Arab teenager living in Israel, playing in a band on a microtonal Farfisa synthesiser, suddenly become drawn to antiquity—and even travel to Greece to be closer to it?

 

For me, it is very simple. I come from an ancient world, from a very old land. In Palestine, in Israel, there is an overwhelming history. The Greeks lived there for a long time, in Palestine. The Romans too. Who did not live there?

 

In school, you study a bit of Greek philosophy, Greek antiquity—here a little, there a little. The decision to go to Greece seemed very logical. It was close. I did not feel it was far.

 

I spent some time in Greece and immediately fell in love with the country—and at the same time, I did not feel it was so different from my own country. Especially the nature: warm, lots of sun, many stones, many mountains. Honestly, it felt very close. Even in everyday mentality, I felt at home.

 

Interest in Greek antiquity and philosophy came much later—as something much older—and, of course, also through engagement with Greek artists such as Iannis Xenakis, Jannis Kounellis, Jani Christou.

 

Also, because I spend a lot of time in Greece each year, I learn more and more about the country. I speak Greek, I read Greek, I have many Greek friends. Over time, I realised that Greek culture plays a major role for me.

 

And at the same time: Greek culture cannot be conceived without Near Eastern culture. Ancient Greek philosophy—they studied the ancient Egyptians. And what about Babylon, Mesopotamia, Anatolia? Greek culture is part of oriental culture. It is not really »European,« as we define Europe today.

 

But that is only a side note for me. The main point is: it has a strong connection to where I come from. It is not simply adopted. I feel part of this culture. It is very close to me—incredibly close.
And yes: not everyone understands Greek philosophy. We all refer to it, but not everyone understands it. Not because it is incomprehensible, but because it is a completely different way of thinking—a way that is personally very close to me.

 

Many say that conversations with you are always full of optimism, and that your music is full of energy. Has your mood changed in recent years—and does that show in your music?

 

Yes, my mood has changed significantly—like that of many others. For about three years now, if not longer, we have been living in a time that feels different—perhaps since the Covid period. The year after Covid had something euphoric about it: it was over, we could do everything again—with great intensity and joy.

 

And then these conflicts in the world arose, growing ever more intense. I don’t like the word »crisis«—climate crisis, this crisis, that crisis. »Crisis« sounds to me like something limited, something one can manage. But today we speak of catastrophic developments worldwide—major conflicts in many areas.

 

Yet in my music, I remain very positive. My art knows neither depression nor giving up.

 

But how should one define it? As a painter, I could say: if I paint a flower that has no water and dies—is that depressive, melancholic? Or if I paint a flower that blooms—is that positive? In art, it is hard to define. There are artists who depict plants on the verge of death—and that has an incredible beauty. It shows the cycle of nature: life and death.

 

So far, I have remained very positive in art. You cannot simply let your melancholic states flow into your art. I am cautious about that.

 

If I am protesting and angry, I allow that anger. But fundamentally, there must be a separation between who you are at the moment and what you are doing at that moment.

 

Imagine: you have a child and you are in a bad mood. Do you project your dissatisfaction, your anger, onto the child? Then you would be a very bad parent. One must think about that a thousand times. Some people are in a bad mood, come home, and create problems.

 

For me, art is like my own children. Music is like my own child. When I compose Entropia, I devote myself to this subject. In everyday life, there are moments of despair—and moments of joy. And I do not sit at the score and compose fanfares just because I feel low. I do not do that.

 

Even when I am not well, I remain faithful to the work. Otherwise, the work is not faithful to me—that is very important. And I am not in a bad mood all day, quite the opposite. But you are right: we live in a dark time. Almost everyone speaks of it. Many people seem currently unmotivated.

 

And again, it is like with a child: you are not feeling well, you sense something approaching—we do not yet know what, hopefully not—but you cannot project it onto the child all the time. You must protect the child. You must show them: life is something very positive.

 

And for me, my piece is something positive. I want to communicate to people about this idea and how it develops musically. I have great joy in these sounds.

 

These sounds—wood, stone, metal, skin—are fantastic. To experience that, and to share it with people: that is a moment of joy.

 

When I go to a museum, that is a moment of joy. Art moves us.

 

Even when art speaks of catastrophes. A Survivor from Warsaw—a magnificent work. And yet: experiencing that work is great joy—from a musical perspective. That is what we live for.