"Folia" is an ancient Portuguese word meaning "mad" or "empty-headed", hence "La Folia" can be roughly translated as "insanity." Musically, La Folia, in its most ancient incarnation, refers to a wild dance in three-quarter time, dating from the 16th century. Participants are said to have danced until they went mad. Later, emphasis changed to the actual chord progression underlying the dance, and it became a stately passacaglia theme, used most famously by Corelli (Sonata in D Minor, Op. 5 No. 12), but thereafter by dozens of other composers, including Scarlatti, Vivaldi, C.P.E. Bach, Salieri, Beethoven, and even my own teacher, Hans Werner Henze.

In my "La Folia" I continue an ongoing pursuit: to write music about music. This is an idea that came to me from Mahler by way of Henze. This work is not a standard set of variations on the Folia theme. Here, the theme itself haunts the margins of the piece, not so much in an integrated, nicely-tied-together sort of way, but rather such that this ancient idea seems to be trying to force its way into the present, into my present. This approach to composing has always made sense to me, since what I do – write orchestral and chamber music – has always seemed to me an odd, anachronistic thing, belonging more to the past than the present, and as such, a little mad.

In 1982 Gregorio Paniagua produced an album called "La Folia", a set of variations on the theme which seem to emphasize the insanity aspect: the orchestration includes viols, crumhorns, sitar, a klezmer band, and the sound of a car engine starting. It is a stunning, hilarious compilation. In his very impressionistic notes for the album, Paniagua made the following observation, which sums up perfectly my own feelings about "La Folia", and about writing music in general:

All the composers in the world who write their own Folia don't keep a close account of what they are doing. They mature patiently like the tree that does not haste his sap; They soak up everything and remain confident in the torments of spring, without anxiety that they might not know another spring. And spring comes and a quiet weariness overcomes them, even if they are patient, carefree and calm, as if all eternity lay before them. They can then love their Folia and their solitude; they endure the pain it causes them and succeed in investing the sound of their complaint with beauty.

La Folia is dedicated to the excellent composer and my dear friend, Dan Coleman.