Acequia (2024)

for orchestra. 3/3/3/3/4/3/3/timp/3 perc/hp/strings

Duration: 9:30

Commissioned by the Gabriela Lena Frank Creative Academy of Music for the San Francisco Conservatory of Music Orchestra with gracious support from Justus and Elizabeth Schlichting.

Instrumentation

1 Piccolo

2 Flutes

2 Oboes

1 English Horn

2 Clarinets in B♭

1 Bass Clarinet in B♭

2 Bassoons

1 Contrabassoon

4 Horns in F

3 Trumpets in C

2 Trombones

1 Bass Trombone

1 Tuba

1 Timpani (4 drums, crotale in G or cymbal to place on one drum, bow)

Percussion (3 players)

P1: Vibraphone (w/bow), Triangle, Congas (two), Suspended Cymbal, Waterphone or Bell Tree, Shaker, Temple Blocks (5, shared w/P2), Crotale (A7 preferred, but any octave fine, tied on string with a bucket of water for dunking)

P2: Crotales (two octaves, with bow), Xylophone, Temple Blocks (5, shared w/P1), Tam-tam (super ball), Toms, Suspended Cymbal, Tambourine, Snare Drum, Crotales (E6 and G6 preferred, but any octave fine, tied on string with a bucket of water for dunking)

P3: Glockenspiel, Chimes, Rain Stick, Bass Drum (super ball), Vibraslap, Bongos (two), Crash Cymbal, Crotales (B6 and B♭6 preferred, but any octave fine, tied on string with a bucket of water for dunking)

Harp

Strings

Program Notes

Acequia

Acequia is an ancient word, brought by the Spanish but Arabic in its origins. It literally refers to an irrigation canal, and the system we use to manage it. The practice of acequia predates the Spanish, as Puebloans surely knew how to direct the flood and river waters to benefit their crops. In the acequia system an intricate path of ditches is hand dug throughout an entire region, and a mayordomo measures snowpack in the winter and decides how much water each family receives. How often and how long one can access acequia water from the ditches is how water is shared, and everybody is given something. It’s a beautiful form of water sharing that stands in direct opposition to the English water rights of prior-appropriation, aka first come first served, that much of the rest of the United States uses. Elsewhere, with concrete lined canals, we measure water down to the drop and whoever was there first can access their full allotted amount, even if that leaves nothing for those downstream. The acequia system only remains in New Mexico and parts of Colorado and is in danger of becoming a casualty of climate change.

I grew up in the North Valley of Albuquerque, a place called The Village of Los Ranchos de Albuquerque. Los Ranchos runs along the Rio Grande and is situated within the floodplain of the largest Fremont Cottonwood forest on earth, affectionately called the Bosque (forest). In stark contrast to the rest of the city Los Ranchos is lush and green, with tall trees, grasses, flowers, and farmland. The mighty Rio Grande used to flood annually, depositing organic matter and water, replenishing the aquifer, and providing a haven for migrating birds. In fact, the reproductive cycle of our beloved Cottonwood Tree depends on flooding. The Rio Grande, like most American rivers, was dammed years ago and the ecosystem depends on us to maintain it.

My parents take incredible pride in their yard, growing grapes, green chile, and grass for grazing animals (we used to have steer and chickens growing up). One of my jobs was to pick up a large wrought iron handle and walk to the back of the property at our designated time and open up the gates so water could flood our field and our vineyard. Within minutes birds would arrive, my favorite being the mighty sandhill crane, tall and elegant, right at home wading in water, hunting for a meal during its long migration. The Cottonwood Trees drank their fill and grew tall, and the aquifer replenished itself. The system is intentionally imperfect, because we share the water along the way and flood what we can to keep the ecosystem alive. Because of what we’ve already done, the birds and the trees would die without our intervention every year.

In my lifetime the neighborhood has changed: more people have moved to Los Ranchos with no interest in the agricultural past. Acequia ditches have fallen into disrepair or worse, paved over with concrete so they no longer connect and share with the earth. Once productive fields have been turned into lawns to be mowed or have gone fallow. Gardeners have been hired as property owners have no interest in growing crops, leaving the most valuable land in New Mexico to become decorative with invasive species. Summers are hotter than ever before, and the irrigation windows have narrowed. Last year my dad couldn’t begin irrigating until a month after he usually does, putting his vineyard at risk of dying in the heat. He had to build a new well, over four times as deep, to get the water that was once a dozen feet underground. Amazingly, he does all his own yard work. When I asked why he did this with his free time he would tell me: “because our ancestors would have given anything to have a property like this to take care of.”

With the steady march of climate change and ever dryer summers, we must conserve as much water as possible, but what constitutes a waste when the life cycle of the land, constrained by humans, now asks of us to flood it once more for the sake of the forest, the birds, and the groundwater? The practice of the Acequia system is at risk of becoming a casualty of climate change as we compete for water with the animals and plants who predate us, and while we must be careful how we use water, we should continue to share it with each other and with the ecosystem. I asked my dad why our street, Guadalupe Trail, was curved when every other street was straight. He told me it was because when the river used to flood Guadalupe Trail became a seasonal creek, channeling water back to the river. That channel became a path, which became the road. Our way of life depends on doing what the Rio Grande told us what is possible from where we live to how we grow food. We should trust it.

The piece is in three parts: slow, fast, slow. The water starts in the mountains as snow and ice with music in quartal and quintal harmony, and then thaws and descends into streams and rivers, providing a flush of life as it goes. As it reaches the floodplain it flows into the acequia system, and becomes more organized, building itself into music on thirds, music of animals, humans, and wildlife, and finally it settles once more, sitting in place, tranquil and peaceful as it slowly seeps into the aquifer below, waiting to make its way to the river underground and begin the system again. The work is frequently interrupted by outside events: too little snow, too much heat, canals in disrepair, wildlife not where it once was, but it comes to completion, nonetheless. There’s still time to save it, but the cracks are showing.

Many thanks to Edwin Outwater and the San Francisco Conservatory of Music Orchestra for premiering this piece, I am so thrilled to be returning to a school and a city I spent so many years in. I am so incredibly grateful to Gabriela Lena Frank and her Creative Academy of Music for asking me to write this work and believing in me to pull something off that was deserving of a Composing Earth fellowship. Thank you to Justus and Elizabeth Schlichting for supporting the commission and new music. And of course, thank you to my parents Linda and Gilbert Benavides for raising me in the most beautiful place on earth and taking the time to make sure I appreciate it. I dedicate this piece to you.

- Nicolás Lell Benavides