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John McGuire

McGuire Steps Up to the Platter; McGuire Heads for Home

Kalvos & Damian’s New Music Bazaar, Show #192/193, 23 and 30 January 1999. Kalvos on the road in New York City in a hotel. Listen to the interview from the original broadcast: Audio Part 1 [0:36:15–1:35:50] / Audio Part 2 [0:35:05–1:32:10].

John McGuire was born in Artesia, California in 1942. He began piano lessons at the age of 8 and French horn at the age of 12. He began composing in college at 17. His principal composition teachers in California were Robert Gross at Occidental College, 1960–64, Ingolf Dahl at the University of Southern California, Seymour Shifrin at the University of California, Berkeley, from 1964–66, and Karl Kohn. In 1966–68 two consecutive Alfred E. Hertz traveling scholarships allowed him to begin an extended stay in Europe. He returned to the USA in 1998, and has since taught 20th-century music and composition at Columbia University. He is now preparing a new piece for orchestra, to be premiered in 2009 by the Radio Symphony Orchestra of Berlin.

Part 1

Audio Part 1 [0:36:15–1:35:50]

[Kalvos] It’s the wind, it’s the wind on the 35th floor of a hotel in New York City. The wind. You’re listening to the Kalvos & Damian New Music Bazaar. And we have a guest, fresh from Europe, so to speak, where you have resided for how long?

[John McGuire] I was in Germany for 32 years. I’ve been in Cologne since 1970.

My goodness, the wind is just taking off here.

Yeah. Well, let’s hope we don’t. [Laughter]

I’m going to let you take it for a while. Tell your story, tell where you’ve been, what you’ve done, how you started, and what you’re doing now? Start way back when. When did you start to compose, and what took you to Europe many years ago, and why you stayed.

Well, those are two or three different starts you’re talking about. I started composing maybe when I was a freshman in college, and kept on until I was in graduate school, at which point I was given a scholarship to go to Europe. That was in 1966. The reason I wanted to go to Europe was because I was interested in the European avant-garde at the time, and I wanted to go to Darmstadt and see what they were doing there.

Darmstadt, at the time, was still one of the great centres of experimental music of all kinds. Who was there when you wanted to go?

Well, the first year I was there, the lectures I really noticed were being given by Mauricio Kagel, György Ligeti and Stockhausen.

Right. All of whom we know heard on this program, and are dearly loved as our kind of mentors. So Darmstadt remained as a centre for many years, and for many people still is, the centre of contemporary music. So you wanted to go there in ’66.

Yeah, I wanted to go there and see what all the fuss was about. I also went for the next two years to seminars which were being offered by Stockhausen, I participated in those too. So-called composition studios. 12 composers were ok’ed to come, and be in his seminar for three weeks.

What was it like? At that time, what was it like?

Well, I really have to back-pedal and think about that, that was in 1967, 1968. My first thought when I think back on it was that it was initially very intimidating to me. I found Stockhausen a terrifically intimidating person. And also in terms of what was coming out from him, musically, the musical ideas very exciting as well. There was just, every day, some new idea about music was being discussed that was unlike anything I’d ever seen or heard before.

Such as? I mean, a lot of them will be familiar to us today, because it’s our heritage, but what did you discover there? What kind of things stick in your mind as great moments of revelation?

What we were doing in 1967 — or I should say, what he was doing — was exploring something like symbolic languages for interactive composing, with several points of reference at once. 12, 24 different points of reference going simultaneously. Which in 1967, was something very new, and bewildering to everybody involved.

What does that mean to have multiple points of reference in a piece of music?

You would be talking about a source, which is being reacted to, which in turn is reacting. That would be two things I would call points of reference.

And the source would be a person, a device?

You could define it as a source of sound, or of information, in which case it can be a device, or a notation, or person.

And what else? What was Stockhausen working on in those years.

In 1967 he was working on a piece called Hymen, which was for electronic sounds. You know the piece well. A gigantic piece. It’s two hours long, a single arc in two hours. I don’t know of anything else like it, really. It also communicates, to me, a law in composing that’s really very impressive, and he was like that, he was like that piece. So, that’s one of the things that made him so intimidating. [Laughter]

So, you were there and being intimidated, and being excited by what was going on. You said you wrote from when you were in high school to when you were graduate school, and invocation from what you said was that you stopped. Did this experience have anything to do with that? Did you stop, and the experience went with it?

No, I didn’t mean to imply that I’d stopped. I kept going on through. I started when I was freshman in college. No, I didn’t stop, I went on. At the same time, I was going to Darmstadt in the summers of ’67 and ’68 and also during the school year, I had enrolled at the Conservatory in Essen, where I was studying with Krzysztof Penderecki. A more kind of traditionally-oriented exercises, counterpoint, instrumentation. I would show him what I was writing, that kind of thing.

I have to ask once again, in 60 seconds, can you say what it was like to be a student of Penderecki?

Well, it was exciting to me in a quite different way than Stockhausen. He was real, an east-European virtuoso musician-type composer. I, having come from this very intellectual music department at Berkeley, California, was confronted with a virtuoso practitioner. It was very interesting to me, to see almost the opposite end of the scale there. So, I took up writing my counterpoint exercises as furiously as I could. I was working 16, 18 hours a day sometimes, for Penderecki. Trying to learn to do it that way, too. So, I could say that those were a couple of extremely exciting years for me, with Stockhausen and Penderecki.

We listen to an excerpt of Vanishing Points by John McGuire [0:46:12–0:55:20].

So we left you in your career, well, maybe not a career yet. Maybe you were still not viewing it as a career. How did you (there’s so many questions here) become a composer in the midst of all that? Did you suddenly decide at some point, that that was going to be the case? Was it sort of a magic moment, or did you just work your way into becoming a composer and decided?

I think it was one of those moments that might be described as having some magic about it. The first time I wrote music and heard it, just kind of went a little crazy, and thought, “You mean, you can actually do this?” you know?

And was that while you were in college?

I was a freshman in college.

I must admit I understand that feeling. The first time you hear someone else perform one of your own pieces. It’s so different from the imagining of it, and the imagining of it is so exciting by itself, and then there’s that moment when not you yourself, but someone outside you, taking what you have, what’s yours. It’s amazing! And that happened while you were in school, and then from there?

Well, I just decided right away that I was going to keep doing that. It seemed to me the only thing I’d ever done that I just totally loved doing.

So, did you say it was a fellowship at Darmstadt? And you just stayed.

Well, I had two years of travelling scholarships from Berkeley. It was a scholarship for a year, I got it renewed, and after that I just stayed. I came back to Berkeley in 1969 for a year of my Master’s degree, and got to know some kinds of music that were very interesting to me.

So you spent how long back after?

It was a year, in 1969. And then I went back there.

By the time you were sort of done with the school, so to speak, the fellowships were over… How did you stay alive?

Well, by hook and crook. [General laughter]

Was it then that you began studying with Ligeti? You’d studied with Ligeti, Stockhausen, Penderecki, all these people.

I never studied with Ligeti. I went to the lectures at Darmstadt, but only studied with Stockhausen and Penderecki. Later, I also attended lectures at Utrecht, from Gottfried Koenig, to get to know the computer.

So, you’re back in Germany by about 1970, then. And are you a performer as well? Or were you largely creating pieces for other performers, or tape?

Well, for a while I was performing other people’s stuff too, as a part-time orchestra pianist with the Saarbrucken Radio Orchestra. And for a while, I was also a church organist.

They let you do that there?

Why wouldn’t they? [Laughter]

There are many stories, probably all apocryphal, that in Germany one could only be a German and be a church organist, because there was a such a local kind of sound that was required.

That may well be the truth, I just happened to luck into this church organist job. I had an Irish organist, an Irish composer (you may know Gerald Barry), he was my predecessor at this job.

Was this in Cologne at the time? You were there, weren’t you?

In a small town outside of Cologne.

Then where did you go from there, what began to happen? And tell us about the style you were composing in. You started in college in America, on the West Coast, and you certainly must have had ideas that you wanted to work up, so where did you start stylistically, and where did you end up after a few years with Stockhausen and Penderecki?

Well, I probably started in the centre of L.A., you know, there were elements of Schoenberg, Stravinsky, Webern, and Miklós Rózsa all mixed up together, just the way they are in L.A. Then things started getting added to that, and things started getting filtered away from that stuff.

And where did you find yourself when you returned to Cologne? What was happening then?

Well, that’s kind of an interesting question. I spent three years on a piece for eight french horns in which I very deliberately decide to more or less summarize everything I’d been able to learn from Stockhausen and Penderecki, with basically the idea of getting rid of it. It was kind of my last student piece, a kind of doctoral thesis, you might say. Where I was heading when I went back to Germany, well, I’ll tell you, what I picked up in California in 1969 was a strong interest in patterning. For want of a better word, people call “minimalistic” kind of patterns, and I was starting to work on that in a piece for four pianos that I started early in 1969 and took four years to write. What I was looking for there was a way of incorporating, in particular, what I’d been so impressed with in Stockhausen’s research into composing with composing with various parameters within the totality of what he called time, and applying that to this kind of patterning. So you might say a kind of serial approach to minimalist pattern music.

Have you brought along an example?

Actually, everything I’ve written since then has been working on that problem. So I don’t have anything that’s not an example.

We listen to an excerpt of Frieze by John McGuire [1:04:00–1:25:50].

You said you’ve been working on it in a sense ever since. What would be considered a solution to the problem of bringing together the patterning and the serialism? Maybe I misheard you, because I thought you said something to the effect that you’d been working on this problem. If you’ve been working on it, maybe you have the “dream piece” in there somewhere that you’re hoping to do.

Well, all you can do is propose various approaches. One approach I’ve taken several times, is to start out with what you might call (now I’m translating from the German to the English) a phase unit, which is what happens in between two coincidences, two different speeds, where you start out, drift apart, come back together again. Regard that as a unit, and magnify that as a unit in such a way that smaller units get inside of that, and then magnify it again, magnify it again, say, so that you have something like a serialist time continuum, in which phase-shifting patterns take place on different expanding, or progressive, levels at a time. That might be one approach that you could take towards something maybe in its structural sophistication, you’re more likely to associate with serialism, what you might be hearing upon the immediate surface. You might say, “Oh, that’s like minimalism.” So you can go different places with it. Briefly, that might be something that you could offer as a proposal to the solution of the problem, if you want to put it that way.

Did you have any kind of reaction from someone like Stockhausen? Was he aware of what you were doing at that point, and did he have any reaction?

We never really directly talked about it.

I ask because in another case, one of the American legendary composers was very harsh to another composer who intended to solve a similar problem, saying that these were unresolvable, and that this was a contamination of the serialist idea. I just wondered if you had any harsh reaction, from what for a long time were two very opposed camps, at least in the States.

I haven’t really come across that. Certainly not from Stockhausen, he’d always been very friendly to us. In fact, my last two commissions at the [West German Radio] were gotten for me by him. As yet, I haven’t been exposed to any real harsh enmities, I guess that’s something that I’m in for, maybe. [Laughter]

Okay, so it’s in the 70s now, that you were working on some of these issues for the first time. What kind of ensemble or performer seeks you out, and says, you know, I’ve heard such and such of yours and I’d like to work with you.

Quite a few pianists have done pieces of mine, because I’ve written quite a bit for piano. Then, I’ve done four electronic pieces, so those are independent of performers. Other than that, there have been a few ensemble pieces, an small orchestra piece…

Describe one of those. How did you begin working out that, you talked a lot about yourself playing piano and organ, there’s a strong, even in the counterpoint exercises you talked about, there’s certainly a lot of the keyboard-esque nature of a lot of counterpoint exercises. What attraction is there to the orchestra?

Well, I used to play in orchestras, and I always loved the instrument, the orchestra as an instrument. I used to play french horn, and like I said when I played piano, I wasn’t really a soloist, I played as an orchestra pianist. So it was the kind of sound, the kind of world, with which I was always familiar and enjoyed being in, and since I’ve started composing, I knew I was going to write something of some kind for orchestra, if just a small orchestra.

I guess the question comes now, what kept you in Europe for so long? What is it about either you, or Europe, or Cologne, or who you knew, or the culture that kept you there for three decades?

Well, one of the things I’d have to answer, is something about me, and that is a tendency to inertia. Once I get somewhere, I tend to stay there. It seemed to be possible for me to dree out my weird in a way that I wanted to dree without too much outside disturbance. I can’t really say beyond that.

When you first got in touch with me, you mentioned that you knew both Henning Berg [see interview in this issue of eContact!] and Clarence Barlow. Have any great anecdotes? Any embarrassing anecdotes about Clarence or Henning, you’d like to share with us? [Laughter]

Um, I’m not sure I should, let’s see. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Clarence. Now, that’s not quite true, he was at our going away party. I can’t really think of any embarrassing anecdotes.

Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. [Laughter] Well, let’s talk about Clarence and in the meantime, hear another piece by John McGuire.

We listen to the conclusion of Pulse Music III by John McGuire [1:34:50–1:40:50], before moving on to the second part of the interview.

Part 2

Audio Part 2 [0:35:05–1:32:10]

While we were off mic, you started to tell me about how you met Henning Berg. He was a guest on our show a couple years ago, and he said…

No, he was more of a jazz musician.

Yes, his pet project there for a long time, Tango.

The way we met was that the studio for electronic music at West German Radio was for several years in the same building as the West German Radio Big Band rehearsed in. I was doing a piece in the studio, and Henning was interested in what was going on in the studio, and during the breaks that the Big Band would take, he would come up to the studio, and that way we got to know each other, through the common interest in electronics.

 Tell me about your electronic music, and how you worked on it there, what materials you used.

Well, I started working on electronic music, actually studying it seriously in the early 70s in a small private studio in Cologne, called Feedback Studio. They had a small synthesizer which I spent several hundreds of hours improvising on, kind of getting a feel for. That went on for a period of years until the mid-70s. I was unable to really get interested enough, to get the kind of interest and the kind of angle into a piece with the synthesizer improvisations, which kind of branched off from my composing into a hobby. I was interested in bringing that back, bringing composing and working with electronics together at some point, but I couldn’t figure out how. They just seemed to have not that much to do with each other.

Until one day, I just did something very simple. Just as an experiment, I turned off everything, all the various things that were influencing other things on the synthesizer, unplugging pins, and just recorded onto a tape machine some sine tones in harmonic relationships and made a loop out of it (it went very fast), listened to this for a while, and thought to myself, “Well this is much more interesting than all these improvisations I’ve been doing.” It was like cleaning out my head. I thought maybe this is a way to start in electronic music.

For the first piece I did, I got into a proper studio, where they had lots of big machines, and everything was Dolby-ized, with a 16-track Dolby recorder and big mixer at the Cologne Hochschule für Musik. I did my first real piece there, which consisted of pitches, basically sine tone mixtures, a deliberate reference to early 50s Cologne electronic music. But these were harmonic mixtures.

What do you mean by harmonic mixtures?

Well, they were fifths and fourths, and octaves. Not weird relationship or scales, but very simple kinds of intervals that I worked with. Simple intervals and sine tones, but built up in as many layers as I could think of. That was the first electronic piece I did, and that was at called Pulse Music I at the Musik Hochschule in Cologne. That was how I got into electronic music, at that studio with that piece.

I was just curious as to that time, what developments you were working on in electronics. What’s your opinion of the work that’s being done in electronics today, and are you still working in electronics?

Well, I did a piece last year, it was the third piece I’d done at the studio for electronic music at the West German Radio. It was shortly after I did Pulse Music I at the Hochschule, a couple years later I was asked to come over to the West German Radio, to their studio for electronic music, and there I did my second electronic music, which was called Pulse Music III, because Pulse Music II came in the middle, and was a piece for orchestra. Over the next 20 years I think, I did six commissions for the West German Radio, but three of them were electronic pieces, where I got to work in the studio for electronic music.

So, where have you gone with your electronics, and to return to that other question, what do you think about what’s going in electronics today, and shall I throw into that mix your opinion of MIDI, and the popularization of electronic instruments?

Today [I’m] not working in electronic music. I did my last piece in 1997. That was a piece for my wife, who’s a singer, and her own vocal samples. I’d come from working with sine tones to vocal samples, which is quite a big difference between those, but you might say there’s certain similarities. Over all the years I’ve worked in electronic music with very harmonic intervals, which is what I started with, and what I ended up with: sampled voice at the end, because I wanted to write a piece for my wife, who’s a singer. So, the last piece I did was called A Cappella, and it’s for solo soprano, and her own samples and nothing else.

We listen to A Capella by John McGuire [0:43:04–1:05:55].

So how about what else is going on in electronic music these days?

I don’t really know, I haven’t been following the development of electronic music, maybe you could tell that by listening to this piece. [Laughter]

Alright. Well let’s move on to the popularization of the electronic instruments through MIDI. Do you have any gut feelings about that, or any kind of reactions.

[Pause] Seems fine to me.

Okay. I ask because some composers we’ve spoken to felt a little usurped by that. Some have also felt that the use of 12-tone equal temperament that is encouraged by this has been destructive in some ways of progress in electronic music.

Yeah, I think that’s certainly true. But you don’t necessarily have to use 12-tone equal temperament, do you?

You don’t have to, but because it’s kind of the default that everything comes with. In the old days of analog machines, you had to kind of tune everything to your taste, whereas now you get a very precise digital device that’s ready to go. And only the more sophisticated machines permit re-tuning.

In other words, it’s more expensive to get away from that.

Yeah, and it’s difficult because the machines aren’t set up to do that easily. … Let’s go to your philosophy of where music is going. I mean, everybody’s one composer. I always get that kind of raised eyebrow look like “Me? Philosophy?” [Genereal laughter] But you can’t work for so many years without having developed some clear vision of what you want to do as a composer, that is mostly spoken by your music, but still there are other aspects of what you do, and why you do it. What might yours be?

That’s very different than wanting to know where music in general is going.

Well, we’ll get there. I still want to sort of push you over that edge.

I don’t know if I want to be pushed. [Laughter] I suppose I have enough outstanding projects to keep me going for enough lifetimes, but it all boils down to a kind of dicking around with very specific kinds of compositional problems. Every piece just throws up new problems that seem to push themselves into the foreground of my attention before I ever get around to any kind of general philosophical basis for what it is that I want to do. I see these specific compositional problems grasping at my lapels and demanding my attention.

Well, even the idea that it’s a compositional problem, as opposed to say, an entertainment, that’s what some other composers have said, they write music strictly to be pleasure upon the ears. Interestingly, very often those who wrestle with it as a compositional problem and those who write it as entertainment sometimes come up with pieces that are very similar, so why the notion of the compositional problem?

Well, I think that writing something that’s merely pleasure for the ears is also a big problem. You might as well write something that doesn’t give your ears any pleasure at all and you’ve got a problem. So I’m saying “problem” in a very general kind of way.

Alright. A couple of examples, you’ve already described one of the compositional problems you’ve addressed, what of the others? So our listeners can understand what that means, because someone who listens to music and is not in the process of making it themselves, the notion of it being a “problem” sounds like something that should be out in the scientific world, perhaps not in the artistic one. What is that? What is a compositional problem?

Well, there are all kinds. In the last piece, I had a couple. Just to give you a specific example from the last couple I worked on, which was to find a way of using my wife’s voice, being aware as I was that if I could write a piece for my wife, she would then get paid. So, one of the problems was how to get my wife paid for my work. [Laughter]

There were sub-aspects to this problem, or you might put it the other way around and that was a sub-aspect to the problem of somebody who’d been working so long on music that had sound sources that had strong, sharp, attacks like piano music. Percussion stuff I’d written, or electronic percussion kinds of sounds. How would I write a piece for voice? A voice doesn’t have any such attack form, but the attack form is going to influence the form and the rhythm and the texture that you use… what do you do when you suddenly have totally different kind of attack, how is that going to influence the form, and the kinds of sequences that you compose? It turns out it’s going to influence it profoundly, of course, and you have to somehow react sensitively to that new given, you’re confronted with a whole new problem. So there’s an example, maybe slightly less frivolously formulated.

Okay, yeah, that’s good. I think that’s very helpful, because I think to hear the difference to hear how a voice works and how a piano works is a very clear distinction that you’ve made for us, that it would certainly ask you to re-cast your entire way of working. And it seems like that is a long-term sort of thing for you, I’m guessing, something that takes you a lot of time and energy and effort to create each piece. Kind of cast them out.

Yeah, you could say that, I’ve worked for several years on a number of my pieces.

Are you happy with them when they’re done?

In general, pretty so-so. I’m usually so tired of them that I’d just as soon not think about them any more.

Something that I mentioned off-mic earlier about the generation of composers younger than you and I are, sort of view many of the things we do as sort of historical artifacts. What do you see happening in composition? Do you listen, do you pay attention to what’s going on in other younger composers in their work?

Well, I’m very interested to do that again. You asked me a while ago why I came back to the States, well, one thing I’d like to do is have a little bit more contact. I was off there in the countryside in Germany, basically contemplating my navel for years. And working on my… problems, you know. [General laughter] And I don’t really know what’s going very much these days with the younger composers, I’m very interested to find out.

I was fascinated with one composer who said that when he was a student, he discovered these old records by this guy Stockhausen and he was so excited because he’d never heard anything like that before. And it sort of stopped me short in the interview, because I realized that these old records of Stockhausen are what I listened to when I was quite young and they were brand new, and I was thrilled! So it was rather startling to realize that some of the composers we’ve spoken to view these as historical styles that they can incorporate and they can play them with a new sense of discovery when they play them. That’s a stopper for me.

When I was at the electronic music studio at the West German Radio, I was told about a young composer they’d invited there who was fascinated to find this thing there called a synthesizer, where he could actually twiddle the dials and the joystick. He’d practically grown up with a computer keyboard, looking at a monitor, this was a discovery for him. Very enthusiastic.

The accident of analog, in a lot of ways. Yeah, I still have my old analog machine as well, although it’s packed away right now, it’s certainly a temptation to bring it back out again, to see what discoveries I can make having spent 15 years in the digital realm, working with things I have to specify with great care. I did enjoy some of the forms and shapes that are so easy to create when you’re working with analog things.

Where are you going next with your own music? You have something you’re working through?

I’m kind of wondering that myself. I don’t really know. I think I’d like to stick with the working on these same problems with the voice. I’ve found it very exciting to take something that was so complex as a given, I found that an utterly different thing than working from atoms outward as I had in the case of electronic pieces with the sine tones and taking that basically same attitude toward the piano and musical instruments. Finally, when I confronted myself with the voice, that was really no longer possible. It turned out that every sound was a world. So it just had to be approached from the opposite direction, and I found that challenging, and also it was something that just appealed to me, something that appealed to my heart, let’s say. So I’d like to stick with working with the voice for longer, and see where that goes.

To ask you some perhaps American questions. [Laughter]

Crass American questions?

Who’s your audience?

Oh, I don’t have an audience that I know of.

Who do you write for? Let me couch that. The reason I ask the question is, it is possible to work out a composition without ever setting it down, either electronically or on paper.

You mean, keeping it all in your head.

Yeah. Or, even if you discard bits of it as you go along, you can solve the sorts of problems that you’ve talked about without keeping it. If you keep it, if you finish it, it implies most of the time (doing my lawyerly best here) that there is meant to be a listener. Some outside composer. Who is that listener? Who’s your imaged listener? You’re imagined audience?

Well, that’s a very complicated question. Most of my years living in Europe, I felt like an exile. I got used to the idea of actually not having an audience much outside myself. I was basically my audience. I kept my sanity, or thought I was trying to keep my sanity, during this time by telling myself that this was okay because I’m not that different from everybody else, and if it’s something that interests me, then there are bound to be other people out there who are interested in this too. So, it’s not really an issue for me. This was the way I talked to myself at that time, I’m not sure I’m going to go on talking to myself that way. [Laughter] So, I really don’t know what my audience is. Now I feel like I’m almost doubly exiled, I don’t know maybe where I am right now, in terms of audience, or in terms of performance.

We listen to an excerpt of Pulse Music III by John McGuire [1:23:20–1:26:15].

One of our good friends, composer Joel Chadabe [see interview in this issue], once asked me to ask composers this question, and I found it so fascinating that I can’t resist asking. So, my question to you is, What do you consider your pioneering act?

Well, that’s really much too hard a question, I don’t think I can answer that. I think if anyone’s made any pioneering contribution, it’s up to others to name it. That just makes me feel too self-conscious… I just can’t do it… I remember reading in the program of the first performance of Stockhausen’s Sirius, (and as we know, he’s not exempting modesty), that it’s dedicated to the American pioneers on earth and in space. This is a man who obviously identifies too with pioneers, but he’s not calling himself one. Not even he does that. And you’re asking me?

That’s why I asked the question. We ask the questions here! [General laughter] We have yet to ask him that question, actually. We had hoped to be able to sit down wih him. One of his associates, I tried to set it up, but the timing didn’t work out, so we might be able to ask him that question, but I bet he won’t deny it.

I’m sure he won’t, and good luck to you.

Well, this has been a great pleasure. I’m glad to have met you.

You too.

And I’m glad you’re here in the States, because we can get together again. Thank you John McGuire for joining us on the Kalvos & Damian New Music Bazaar.

Thanks, it’s been nice to be here.

We listen to the conclusion of 48 Variations for Two Pianos by John McGuire [1:28:25–1:32:10].

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