Homewood Studios Events Archive
September 9, 2013
IMPROVISED MUSIC AT HOMEWOOD STUDIOS
Milo Fine (electronic piano, B flat/alto clarinets) / Scott Newell (tenor sax, voice) / Davu Seru (drum set) / Charles Gillett (guitar)/Sam Wildenauer (bass)
Sound trolling begins at 7p. Suggested donation $5 - $10.
intention: sending energy out / taking something back in
everything vibrates on its own frequency. the air. shoes. memory. a myna bird hangs upside down, speaking backwards into the night. clear drops of water drip from palm fronds bowing to the passing clouds. spiders, scurrying on tinfoil paths, make an eight-footed tap dance rhythm on the rim of the saxophone. children on their gaudy bikes pause to peer in the window. they don't know they are vibrating too. ~~ from the apse of a distant cathedral, organ music escaping the sacred space to take up residence at the local roller rink. meanwhile, in another part of town, ham radio operators track commentary on the earth quake. the itinerant physician, carrying his medical voice in his worn black bag, meanders into town and sits down with two patrons at cecil's bar - the open-air cafe famous for its unpredictable concerts. but word is out and traffic snarls in anticipation of tonight's show. traffic cops dance and swings their arms, gestures entirely inappropriate for managing the flow of automobiles. so the cars begin their own dance, eschewing the roads and signs for sidewalks, museums, clotheslines, park playgrounds and sculpture gardens.
about that vibration thing. what is not at this point? vibrating. silly question. the ink on the page where these words were first written. the electronic blips that translate those words into n online, in the aether, document are. the ten members of the audience are. as re the floorboards and walls, light fixtures, art on the walls, our shoes and our teeth. vibrating. ~~ back to the arachnid beboppers. can you envision them? eight-legged manic dancing? the chorus line with hundreds of spindly black legs kicking in unison? tiny flares of light roping down each leg in turn. reflecting into the eyes of the five musicians. ~~ what happened to the declared intention? the declared focus for tonight's improvisational scribbling? something sent out / something drawn in. someone walking by outside the gallery, trying not to notice. but forever changed by feeling teh vibrations emanating through the windows into the dusky evening. or the mom pushing her baby in a stroller. curious, but other-committed. and she, too, is modified in dome way because she walked where she walked at this moment, an avalanche of unexpected sound sweeping her down the street toward home.
the cicadas get going so vociferously (before pausing to listen to the myna bird), they remind themselves of a waterfall of laughing voices. what do they do with that information? take out their wallets and trace business cards. bowing to each other in the japanese way of having a humble contest.
ba-dip. ba-dah. ba-dip. ba-dah. now up. now down. now not. then yes. nomt yet. but then. and a long, cool drink. of water.
when headlights of passing cars begin reflecting in the gallery window, the fold of energy shifts. something like bending the corner of a page in a mystery novel to mark your place. but when you wake, you realize you had fallen asleep while reading. the last words you read were not on the page but on the inside of your eyelids. the music you are hearing is not in the air but inside your earlids. everything is dream-made. dream-real. dream magic. somebody once wrote, perhaps james joyce, history is a nightmare from which i am trying to wake. but who wishes to wake from this self-induced, self-created dreaming? a nice place to be. safe. vibrating. full of sounds we never heard before. there woman artist, a photographer, who submerges her models in milk. before painting them waht parts of them emerge and float. uses their skin, then, as a canvas. what sort of openings does that create in your there's-nothing-new-in-the-world scenario?
a pond stirred by a long, green stick. the stick held by an aged hand. the hand attached to silence. the silence broken. by an air raid siren. this noisy siren conjured by a mythic siren sitting on the pond bank, singing. he song melts the wax in the ears of passers by. who, enchanted, pause to watch moonlight ripple. on the water. those ripples - energy moving out - trip the levers of memory. flood the space behind the eyes. with images of pigs driving convertibles, mountainsides skidding into the sea, whales singing to each other across hundreds of miles of ocean, butterflies flitting in morning light, babies eating watermelon with slippery fingers, and hounds digging at screaming rabbits. what more could anyone ask of their imaginative powers?
one of the musicians - scott -l shuffles his hand-drawn scores. riffles the pages like searching memory for a lost thought. while the others propel the night onward. pushing everything along on wheels made of sound. another begin tap dancing with his fingers. snapping popcorn sounds into the conversation.
light begins to leave the day. the few bulbs lit in the gallery inadequate to see what i am saying. the remainder of the evening's concert will surrender to simple listening. goodbye vocal winds. goodbye squeaky brakes. goodbye frenetic crickets. adieu hurrying home tires on the hot roadway. so long nosediving birds plunging into the fish-rich surf. adios roller coasters of the desert.