Pontius Pilate’s Overture

An archive story / First-person account

Pilate, Moscow and Petter's Kitchen

I wanted to try to set Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita to music, although "set to music" should probably be understood rather loosely. It wasn't about composing a soundtrack to a book. I wanted something of its world to find its way into what Henry and I were doing.

At the time, I was receiving friends from Ukraine who had fled the war. I have Ukrainian roots myself, and Bulgakov's absurd Moscow suddenly seemed terribly relevant. I felt there were parallels with the world Putin had created, with its terror and war. The novel came much closer to me.

The title Pontius Pilate's Overture refers to Pilate's torment over his role in the execution of Yeshua Ha-Notsri. He cannot escape his guilt. He remains trapped in a kind of limbo.

To me, the music seems to exist in a similar state. It floats somewhere, creating a soundscape that becomes a story of its own.

We recorded it in Petter's kitchen. It is one continuous improvisation, almost ten minutes long, and I think Henry and I entered some kind of trance while playing.

I hear traces of Swedish folk music, hard rock and moments that remind me of Led Zeppelin. Particularly those passages where the music seems to drift away and wonder where it should go next. I often think of the middle section of Whole Lotta Love, where John Bonham makes what I consider one of his finest musical contributions.

Henry plays an extraordinary solo in Pontius Pilate's Overture. I know he likes the recording himself. Perhaps that is because we managed to create something neither of us could have planned. Improvisation can give you access to a musicianship you don't consciously know you possess.

At one point, I decided to play with an open-handed approach to the drums, rather than crossing my arms. It changed the sound and produced a rather peculiar, broken rhythm.

You can hear this especially around 5:30.

Henry follows it seamlessly, weaving notes around what I'm playing. Around seven minutes in, it develops into an extraordinary riff. Neither of us knew it was coming.

We also had the Behringer Neutron running a bass sequence. I used an Arturia KeyStep to programme and sequence it so that the synthesizer could keep playing independently.

The Neutron has a habit of changing its sound as it goes along. Sometimes it seems to have a life of its own, which suited us perfectly.

Those background sequences became a kind of unconscious metronome. We couldn't always hear them clearly in the room, but they still affected how we played.

Toward the end, the screw holding my hi-hat in place came loose. Eventually, all that remained from it was the clicking of the stand.

And then, in the final seconds, something else happened.

We returned to a riff from earlier in the recording. I doubled the rhythm while Henry increased the tempo. It was only a brief moment, but I didn't want to lose it.

So I simply cut the recording off.

The improvisation itself had been continuous. The abrupt ending was a decision I made afterwards, because those last seconds deserved to remain.

I like that ending. The music doesn't really resolve. Perhaps it shouldn't.