Half-hurriedly walking through the halls of my dorm, flicking through Spotify, I rest my thumb on Steve Reich’s Tehillim. ‘Literally translated, Tehillim means praises in Hebrew’ Reich writes in the composer notes; traditionally, it translates to Psalms. As I strike play on the first movement, Reich’s ecstatic cantillations bless my weary agnostic ears. The soprano sits on top of the minimalist mix, cyclically singing Psalms 19:2-5. Below her rests the percussionists who play two delicately syncopated drumming sequences, one being clapped and the other precisely played on a tom drum. The elaborately asymmetrical patterns interweave and dance around each other as I enter my room and set down my backpack. As I find my own place in the ebb and flow of Tehillim, Reich throws a curveball. On the and-of-one the clarinet and cello enter playing the root with a rich and grounded square-wave-like tone; it’s impossible for this entrance to not bypass your brain entirely and grab hold of your feet. I drum my heel to the chunks of syncopated rhythm I’m able to hold onto before they slip away. The third movement begins. Gently caressed by the vibraphone, it intimately opens itself, briefly travelling into a meditative minor key before resolving. Though Tehillim doesn’t quite reach the atmospheric heights that Music for 18 Musicians does, that isn’t what it sets out to do. Rather, it takes a deliberately melodic approach in its exploration of Reich’s relationship with Judaism.
As the fourth movement begins, the steadily syncopated drumming patterns nervously pick up in speed, almost like they’re suffering. But this nervousness morphs into a grandiose sound as the piece ends in an all-consuming drone. With the soprano’s voice still echoing in my head I lay down in my bed. Is faith a way to find joy? I think Reich has found a way to prove it does.