Gabriella Smith grew up in Berkeley, California, splitting her time between composing and fieldwork, banding birds at a wildlife observatory, backpacking the ranges of the American West, and her music has never separated the two. The New York Times calls her work “euphoric”; she calls it what it is: the sound of ecosystems, tide pools, forests and fault lines translated for players who are asked to chop, slither, whistle and groove.
Tumblebird Contrails, written at nineteen after a hike along Point Reyes, has been championed by the Los Angeles Philharmonic and Gustavo Dudamel; Breathing Forests, her organ concerto for James McVinnie, turns an instrument of pipes and wind into a literal forest of breath. The Aizuri Quartet's recording of Carrot Revolution introduced thousands of listeners to her particular brand of joy.
That joy is deliberate. Smith writes and speaks constantly about the climate crisis, and her wager is that wonder moves people where despair cannot. It is hard to leave her music unmoved, or unhopeful.
