Scroll down for the English, and, also, for a pic of Creeley's gravestone...carved by Brooke Roberts (my dad.)
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
Links
Also from Bedroom Community: the "ambient hardcore" of Ben Frost
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Concerts A Emporter (take-away shows) from La Blogotheque
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Comics by Kate Beaton
Brown Profs, New (heavy.) Books
C.D. Wright has a new book out-- Rising, Falling, Hovering-- and it's very good.
The book consists of a long title piece (which came out in the Chicago Review a couple years ago) and a handful of other shorter poems. The whole thing meanders in the way that her books do-- interspersing the personal (bits of dialogue, anecdote, description) and various mutations of public language (hijacked "press-speak," advertising, dates and numbers). It's a world of shock and despair at continued war, in all its forms...as well as the shards of what it means to be a human found here.
Crying helps
Crying doesn't help
One wants to make oneself smaller than the mouse
under the icebox One wants to dry into invisible ink
One has a sense of something out there that needs saving
and one ought to attach the buckle
to a heavy-gauge wire and pull him through
Wright's work is the best kind of political poetry: an open wound; work that pries open, rather than attempting to shut.
John Edgar Wideman, whose "fact & fiction" class I took at Brown, has a new book out, too. Fanon (Houghton-Mifflin, 2008) is a strange cobbling of, well, fact and fiction-- the culmination of a project on Fanon that Wideman was never able to fully realize. It's a meditation on disappointment-- with a society still failing to address race, and life, in meaningful ways; with one's own self and work-- that eats itself from the inside out, often within a single sentence. I took his class while he was working on this project, and just after I had read, and been absolutely destroyed by, The Wretched of the Earth (during my time off from school).
Wideman begins the book with a quote of Fanon's:
"The imaginary life cannot be isolated from real life, the concrete and the objective world constantly feed, permit, legitimate and found the imaginary. The imaginary consciousness is obviously unreal, but it feeds on the concrete world. The imagination and the imaginary are possible only to the extent that the real world belongs to us."
What makes this book so desperate, to me, is that the authoritative, hopeful note struck by Fanon is such a counterpoint to what follows. Wideman seems to be saying: this is a failed work of fiction insofar as it is a failed work of life. The world doesn't belong to us, yet.
under that big dry socket of god
the camera mounted to capture
ordinary traffic violations
fixes instead on your final face
a single frame of unadulterated
urgency is what you see, urgency it is
The book consists of a long title piece (which came out in the Chicago Review a couple years ago) and a handful of other shorter poems. The whole thing meanders in the way that her books do-- interspersing the personal (bits of dialogue, anecdote, description) and various mutations of public language (hijacked "press-speak," advertising, dates and numbers). It's a world of shock and despair at continued war, in all its forms...as well as the shards of what it means to be a human found here.
Crying helps
Crying doesn't help
One wants to make oneself smaller than the mouse
under the icebox One wants to dry into invisible ink
One has a sense of something out there that needs saving
and one ought to attach the buckle
to a heavy-gauge wire and pull him through
Wright's work is the best kind of political poetry: an open wound; work that pries open, rather than attempting to shut.
***
John Edgar Wideman, whose "fact & fiction" class I took at Brown, has a new book out, too. Fanon (Houghton-Mifflin, 2008) is a strange cobbling of, well, fact and fiction-- the culmination of a project on Fanon that Wideman was never able to fully realize. It's a meditation on disappointment-- with a society still failing to address race, and life, in meaningful ways; with one's own self and work-- that eats itself from the inside out, often within a single sentence. I took his class while he was working on this project, and just after I had read, and been absolutely destroyed by, The Wretched of the Earth (during my time off from school).
Wideman begins the book with a quote of Fanon's:
"The imaginary life cannot be isolated from real life, the concrete and the objective world constantly feed, permit, legitimate and found the imaginary. The imaginary consciousness is obviously unreal, but it feeds on the concrete world. The imagination and the imaginary are possible only to the extent that the real world belongs to us."
What makes this book so desperate, to me, is that the authoritative, hopeful note struck by Fanon is such a counterpoint to what follows. Wideman seems to be saying: this is a failed work of fiction insofar as it is a failed work of life. The world doesn't belong to us, yet.
***
under that big dry socket of god
the camera mounted to capture
ordinary traffic violations
fixes instead on your final face
a single frame of unadulterated
urgency is what you see, urgency it is
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Nico Muhly, "Mothertongue"
I spent much of my final undergraduate semester in the music library, hurriedly downloading entire collections of contemporary classical composers. By the end of my time at Brown, Steve Reich and Meredith Monk had become absolute favorites. I loved how energetic their (very different) minimalisms were, and I loved, particularly, how they found ways to push joy up through other textures in their music.
That each often (or always, in Monk's case) chooses to use the human voice as an instrument for this purpose makes them a good starting point for talking about Nico Muhly’s second album. Mothertongue (2008, Bedroom Community) is a beautiful exploration of the intersection between human voice, found data, and music. I’ve been following Muhly—who studied under Philip Glass at Juilliard, and is somehow only 26 years old—ever since another friend introduced me to his first album, Speak Volumes (also released by Bedroom Community), late this winter during a visit to Iowa City.
Muhly’s first collection of pieces carves out a wonderful variety of terrain. “Honest Music” is a memorably intense piece for solo viola; “It Goes Without Saying,” maybe my favorite piece, has a more patient and meditative but equally rewarding release; “Pillaging Music” dances with playful (or sinister?) Reich-like syncopation. The last piece on Speak Volumes is a “duet” between viola and Antony Hegarty (of Antony and the Johnson’s). Here’s an attempt at a description. Two-and-a-half minutes of solo viola begins, then…some small cooings. Antony’s voice enters the space, immediately enlarging it, then drops out. Strings begin to be tapped. An organ enters. Antony’s voice hangs from edges and drops. Strings, voice, tappings. No organ. When the organ re-enters, strings and voice bend toward it. The organ bends away. Gorgeous harmonies last just long enough to grip you—then lose themselves. Then build. Return.
Towards the end of the piece, Antony’s voice is by turns bird-like, computer, human. It’s pretty astounding, and you have to hear it.
I was happy, then, to hear that Muhly was exploring voice in this second collection. It’s the dominant element in Mothertongue, which features three different vocalists on three separate multi-track sequences. While it’s hard to top Antony, I think Muhly manages to do something moving and different in each of the three sequences he gives us here.
That each often (or always, in Monk's case) chooses to use the human voice as an instrument for this purpose makes them a good starting point for talking about Nico Muhly’s second album. Mothertongue (2008, Bedroom Community) is a beautiful exploration of the intersection between human voice, found data, and music. I’ve been following Muhly—who studied under Philip Glass at Juilliard, and is somehow only 26 years old—ever since another friend introduced me to his first album, Speak Volumes (also released by Bedroom Community), late this winter during a visit to Iowa City.
Muhly’s first collection of pieces carves out a wonderful variety of terrain. “Honest Music” is a memorably intense piece for solo viola; “It Goes Without Saying,” maybe my favorite piece, has a more patient and meditative but equally rewarding release; “Pillaging Music” dances with playful (or sinister?) Reich-like syncopation. The last piece on Speak Volumes is a “duet” between viola and Antony Hegarty (of Antony and the Johnson’s). Here’s an attempt at a description. Two-and-a-half minutes of solo viola begins, then…some small cooings. Antony’s voice enters the space, immediately enlarging it, then drops out. Strings begin to be tapped. An organ enters. Antony’s voice hangs from edges and drops. Strings, voice, tappings. No organ. When the organ re-enters, strings and voice bend toward it. The organ bends away. Gorgeous harmonies last just long enough to grip you—then lose themselves. Then build. Return.
Towards the end of the piece, Antony’s voice is by turns bird-like, computer, human. It’s pretty astounding, and you have to hear it.
I was happy, then, to hear that Muhly was exploring voice in this second collection. It’s the dominant element in Mothertongue, which features three different vocalists on three separate multi-track sequences. While it’s hard to top Antony, I think Muhly manages to do something moving and different in each of the three sequences he gives us here.
The first four tracks comprise “Mothertongue,” the title piece and my favorite of the three. The minimal building blocks of the first track, “Archive”—strings of letters, zip-codes, city-names—sing and chatter together, along with some wandering strings and an occassional spine of bass fuzz. Towards the end, the orchestration becomes more lush, introducing piano and harp textures (and the occasional, obligatory clarinet—someone please tell me why this instrument always sounds so perfect). “Archive” transitions almost unnoticed into “Shower,” in which a single voice (mezzo-soprano Abigail Fischer) ascends over a now foregrounded chatter. You have to listen to this music on headphones. Muhly uses a variety of “non-instrument” sound snippets throughout the album—there’s water dripping & falling here, and a cup of coffee is brewed and poured to open the third track—but they never overwhelm the whole. Recorded noises work so wonderfully inside the snippets of voice, fuzz, and careful orchestration that they’re less noise than…becoming-musics.
What else could we ask from any piece that uses found or recorded sound material? That its instrumentation then take on an eerie, overheard-sound dimension? Oh, we get that too. The fourth track, Monster, is probably the most startling gorgeous of the album. A build-up of xylophone(?), strings, and morse-like fuzz blips occasion a desperate, insistent return of the zip-codes—suddenly, startlingly human. It’s fantastic, powerful stuff.
The other sequences require, I think, a bit more work to access, but if you’re there for the first four tracks of Mothertongue you’re more than willing. The record transitions pleasurably, if jarringly, to the Renaissance-sounding harpsichord and voice (featuring Icelandic artist Helgi Hrafn Jónsson) of “Wonders.” Muhly has a real affinity for older choral music, and his ability to inject this sensibility into the contemporary uncovers a bit of the uncanny in each. It’s what makes these middle tracks work. There’s compositional continuity, too—one voice set against a curtain of voice-blips and chatter, along with deliberate instrumentation (this time, some horns and the aforementioned harpsichord). The sequence apparently explores an actual complaint against a 17th century organist named Thomas Weekes. Go figure. (It always takes me about a billion listens to actually process music lyrics, let alone this kind of thing.)
The combination of archaic source and “new” sound is further charted in “The Only Tune,” which features the voice of Sam Amidon (whose debut album All is Well, also from Bedroom Community, was among my most-listened to albums this winter/spring.). The text here is the story—unleashed a syllable at a time (literally)—of a girl who pushes her sister in the river to drown. Nice. Amidon’s voice is great, but it’s a bit distracting in this context, at least if you’re used to his other work. His folky wail takes up so much space on its own that it can tend to overwhelm Muhly’s careful orchestration. Even if the elements seem to be competing for stretches, the sequence still yields some great moments. The chaos and disintegration of the middle track gives way to Part 3, in which the elements really actually do find their stride aside one another. (This works nicely with the text: suddenly, when you least expect it…redemption. The story tells itself, without disintegrating, comes into its own. It’s all very clever.)
On the whole, Mothertongue is more than clever: it's absorbing, challenging, and moving. It also manages to both more cohesive and more complicated than Speak Volumes…which is saying A LOT. I’ll be listening to it for weeks to come.
What else could we ask from any piece that uses found or recorded sound material? That its instrumentation then take on an eerie, overheard-sound dimension? Oh, we get that too. The fourth track, Monster, is probably the most startling gorgeous of the album. A build-up of xylophone(?), strings, and morse-like fuzz blips occasion a desperate, insistent return of the zip-codes—suddenly, startlingly human. It’s fantastic, powerful stuff.
The other sequences require, I think, a bit more work to access, but if you’re there for the first four tracks of Mothertongue you’re more than willing. The record transitions pleasurably, if jarringly, to the Renaissance-sounding harpsichord and voice (featuring Icelandic artist Helgi Hrafn Jónsson) of “Wonders.” Muhly has a real affinity for older choral music, and his ability to inject this sensibility into the contemporary uncovers a bit of the uncanny in each. It’s what makes these middle tracks work. There’s compositional continuity, too—one voice set against a curtain of voice-blips and chatter, along with deliberate instrumentation (this time, some horns and the aforementioned harpsichord). The sequence apparently explores an actual complaint against a 17th century organist named Thomas Weekes. Go figure. (It always takes me about a billion listens to actually process music lyrics, let alone this kind of thing.)
The combination of archaic source and “new” sound is further charted in “The Only Tune,” which features the voice of Sam Amidon (whose debut album All is Well, also from Bedroom Community, was among my most-listened to albums this winter/spring.). The text here is the story—unleashed a syllable at a time (literally)—of a girl who pushes her sister in the river to drown. Nice. Amidon’s voice is great, but it’s a bit distracting in this context, at least if you’re used to his other work. His folky wail takes up so much space on its own that it can tend to overwhelm Muhly’s careful orchestration. Even if the elements seem to be competing for stretches, the sequence still yields some great moments. The chaos and disintegration of the middle track gives way to Part 3, in which the elements really actually do find their stride aside one another. (This works nicely with the text: suddenly, when you least expect it…redemption. The story tells itself, without disintegrating, comes into its own. It’s all very clever.)
On the whole, Mothertongue is more than clever: it's absorbing, challenging, and moving. It also manages to both more cohesive and more complicated than Speak Volumes…which is saying A LOT. I’ll be listening to it for weeks to come.
Sound Projects
I've gone and created a YouTube channel for a couple sound projects I created back in college.
The first, Anger, is Robert Creeley reading the poem of the same name + instrumental sections from The Downward Spiral.
The first, Anger, is Robert Creeley reading the poem of the same name + instrumental sections from The Downward Spiral.
The second, It (for 66 Voices), is a layering of 66 different people reading overlapping sections of Inger Christensen's book-length poem It. The piece breaks down as follows:
Section I: a 66 line stanza read by 66 voices
Section II: two 33 line stanzas read by 33 voices each
Section III: three 22 line stanzas read by 22 voices each
Section IV: six 11 line stanzas read by 11 voices each
Section V: eleven 6 lines stanzas read by 6 voices each
Section VI: twenty-two 3 line stanzas read by 3 voices each
Section VII: thirty-three couplets read by 2 voices each
Section VIII: sixty-six single lines read by a single voice each
It turned out to be a pretty amazing project.
You can also find It posted on Pinko's Copies.
Section I: a 66 line stanza read by 66 voices
Section II: two 33 line stanzas read by 33 voices each
Section III: three 22 line stanzas read by 22 voices each
Section IV: six 11 line stanzas read by 11 voices each
Section V: eleven 6 lines stanzas read by 6 voices each
Section VI: twenty-two 3 line stanzas read by 3 voices each
Section VII: thirty-three couplets read by 2 voices each
Section VIII: sixty-six single lines read by a single voice each
It turned out to be a pretty amazing project.
You can also find It posted on Pinko's Copies.
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