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Founded in 1977 by Marc Hollander with Vincent Kenis, this is the seminal Crammed band, which explored several directions later followed by the label (set up by Hollander three years later). Each of Aksak’s three albums to date is stylistically different, yet shares a common foundation with the two others.

We are very excited about your upcoming Aksak Maboul album. How did you decide to form a new live incarnation of the band?

Marc Hollander: The new band was created in the wake of the release of the record now known as Ex-Futur Album. As you may know, this was meant to be the third Aksak Maboul album. From 1980 to 1983, in between our tours with the third incarnation of Aksak Maboul (which then morphed into The Honeymoon Killers), vocalist Véronique Vincent and myself had been working on a series of tracks which explored the avant-electronic pop end of the Aksak spectrum. They incorporated quite a few strange elements for conventional pop music, at the time. We weren’t happy with the tracks, and meanwhile the label was starting to take up most of my time, so we left the album in an unfinished state (though it had been announced right from the inception of Crammed Discs, in our very first catalogue, back in 1981!).

“Explored the avant-electronic pop end of the Aksak spectrum”

Thirty years later, in 2014, we started thinking that the time may be right for releasing these unfinished songs. We mixed the tracks that could be mixed (because we had multitrack tapes for them), and retrieved some others from demos, did some editing between versions that were sometimes on cassettes, etc. We were planning on doing a kind of archival, low-profile release, but the reactions were enthusiastic, and Ex-Futur Album was extremely well received by the media and the pubic, and by many young musicians who operate in similar fields.

 

READ THE WHOLE INTERVIEW HERE

 

Alan Licht examines Genesis Breyer P-Orridge’s legacy of transforming 1960s psychedelic culture into a subversive vehicle for social change

Every obituary has tagged the late Genesis Breyer P-Orridge as a musician and an artist, but the self-categorisation of Cultural Engineer seems to ring far more true. Genesis certainly made music, as a vocalist and occasional bassist and violinist – over 200 album credits worth, at last count – but music for h/er (P-Orridge used gender neutral terms self-referentially from the 2000s on) was always the product of communal activity, a means of challenging prevailing norms and calling attention to the outer edges of human behaviour, often inspired by similar efforts by non-musical thinkers and creators, rather than an end in itself to provide entertainment or demonstrate instrumental skill. In 1981 Genesis pointed out that s/he “spent most of my life… living in communes… and working in different groups. That’s why I never work on my own, because it seems pointless.” While COUM Transmissions and the other communal performance art-oriented troupes of P-Orridge’s that preceded the seminal band Throbbing Gristle had incorporated music, it was TG that was deliberately assembled as an anti-rock rock group – four untrained musicians (P-Orridge and fellow COUM members Peter Christopherson and P-Orridge’s then partner Cosey Fanni Tutti, along with Chris Carter), with two of them doing live electronics, a guitarist who played solely noise with a metal slide, and no drummer or individual songwriter(s).

TG’s intent was subversion within the music scene in a pivot away from the art world, and that was reflected in the arch titling of their albums—their initial homemade cassette was mockingly called ‘The Best of’…Volume 1, the 1977 debut album confusingly dubbed The Second Annual Report. The cheekiness was combined with a distinctly transgressive sensibility: the logo image of their label, Industrial Records, was in fact a photo of Auschwitz; the scenic cliff backdrop they posed against on the cover of 20 Jazz Funk Greats, their third LP (another ironic title, as it contained neither jazz funk nor 20 cuts) was Beachy Head, a popular destination for suicides. The music, imitated in one aspect or another by scores of industrial bands ever since, veered between harsh soundscapes and proto-electro pop, paired with beyond the pale lyrics, such as describing a woman horribly charred from the waist up (“Hamburger Lady”) or a Manson Family-esque home invasion involving mutilation (“Slug Bait”). Even “United”, vaguely a love song, snuck in a lyrical reference to the notorious occultist Aleister Crowley (“love is the law”, part of Crowley’s dictum that continues “love under will”).

Crowley’s hedonistic philosophies were rediscovered by the late 1960s counterculture, and to a great extent that period lasted a lifetime for Genesis (in a 2009 conversation with the band Black Dice, s/he claimed that there was nothing in h/er house – music, furniture or clothing – made after 1969). Psychic TV, the band that s/he, Peter Christopherson and Alternative TV’s Alex Fergusson formed in the early 80s after TG split, played concerts mixing improvisations and songs alongside projections of videos made and assembled by the group, à la Warhol/Velvet Underground Exploding Plastic Inevitable happenings of the mid-60s. P-Orridge glorified The Rolling Stones’ founding guitarist, Brian Jones, in Psychic TV’s sole chart hit “Godstar” and steered Psychic TV in the direction of acid house in the late 80s, initially attracted to the trance element of the music and rave culture as an echo of the trip festivals of the original 60s psychedelic era. S/he also launched The Temple Of Psychick Youth, modelled to some degree on Crowley’s ritual magic organisation OTO, which networked information on various esoteric subjects and which functioned as a Psychic TV fan club with deliberate overtones of a cult movement. It is telling that The Temple was designated for a youth constituency in its very name, as the 60s were a very youth-centric decade and rock is usually directed at a youth audience to begin with, but with TOPY P-Orridge made an association between teenage rock acolytes and the recruitment of youth by cult leader/father figures like Manson and Jim Jones, who s/he was fascinated by and regularly touched on in the 70s and 80s. TOPY didn’t seem to be set up in order to exploit or brainwash their members, but some observers were skeptical about where this grand experiment in conflating cult followings would end up – at best, and at worst it was feared to be a bizarre, quasi-Satanic sex cult. The accusations made by Cosey Fanni Tutti in her 2017 memoir Art Sex Music of abusive and controlling behaviour by P-Orridge during their long domestic partnership, which fell apart during the TG period, suggest that whatever identification P-Orridge may have had with cult leaders could have manifested in his own personal relationships, at least as a young man (P-Orridge denied Tutti’s allegations).

With Lady Jaye, P-Orridge’s partner in the 90s and 2000s, s/he embarked on the Pandrogyne Project, which involved extensive physical surgery to modify their bodies so that they resembled each other to the point of fusing into a single entity, for which they shared the same joint name: Breyer P-Orridge. Genesis was a fan and friend of both William S Burroughs and Brion Gysin, and this took Gysin’s idea of the cut-up (taking a text, cutting it up and re-organising it to reveal subliminal truths supposedly contained within it), which Burroughs used extensively in several novels, to its ultimate interpersonal and biological conclusion (not to mention enacting the lyric of TG’s “United”: “You become me/And I become you/She is she/And she is you too/United”). Pandrogyne exemplified P-Orridge’s core belief in the force of h/er own will to follow and live out h/er interests and convictions to the furthest boundary imaginable (and sometimes well beyond that). “He lived his entire life around his idea or philosophy, and everything he did was part of that,” P-Orridge said of Crowley in 1981. “And that’s what I decided I should do – that’s what I decided everyone should do – but it’s not up to me to make people do what I think they should do.” Such a stance won P-Orridge many admirers but also created conflicts throughout h/er life with mainstream society, up to and including the British government.

When I arrived at the Breyer P-Orridge residence in Ridgewood Queens in 2006, for our appointment to do an Invisible Jukebox for the The Wire 271, Gen opened the door, in full Brian Jones-inspired regalia, and blearily asked “Who are you again?” as Lady Jaye hovered in the background. I couldn’t help but think of the scene in the film Performance where James Fox turns up at the home of the reclusive androgynous rock star Turner (played by Mick Jagger) trying to talk his way in while (Jones’s real-life partner) Anita Pallenberg looks on. It struck me that Genesis had made that movie h/er life, at least in certain outward appearances. We talked for four hours, the longest jukebox interview I’ve ever done. Charismatic and loquacious, a raconteur par excellence, s/he spoke for 30 minutes about The Master Musicians Of Jajouka alone, and very passionately about a Patti Smith bootleg track that I played. S/he also talked candidly about the ways in which both TOPY and acid house hadn’t worked out the way s/he’d originally hoped they would, as well as ruminating on the gender concept from prehistoric times and a futuristic vision of body modification for space travel. It was a brutally hot day, and at one point Lady Jaye came downstairs and brought h/er an ice pop. Genesis clapped h/er hands gleefully, saying “yum, yum” as s/he licked the treat. S/he seemed to be five years old and five hundred years old all at once. But that seems to have been a goal, perhaps the one P-Orridge accomplished most successfully: to contain multitudes within one person. The body modifications and name changes (s/he was born Neil Megson) can be viewed as demarcations of that. S/he also referred to h/erself as we, to signify h/er union with Lady Jaye, even after her passing in 2007. But TOPY also used we as opposed to I to recognise the ‘multi-dimensionality’ it tried to develop in the personalities of its members; self-actualisation was one of its stated purposes. As with the 60s counterculture, which also aspired to raise consciousness within the individual and across communities, implementing this had its limits. “We never figured out how to change behaviour, it seems pretty obvious it’s down to each person,” P-Orridge remarked about the collapse of TOPY during our interview. If P-Orridge fell short of transforming society as fully as s/he transformed h/erself, it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying.

Tone Glow

Annea Lockwood

Annea Lockwood is a New Zealand-born, US-based composer and musician who has been creating sound art and sound maps for decades. Her work was performed at Chicago’s annual Frequency Festival in February, and an installation for her Sound Map of the Danube was set up in Chicago’s Experimental Sound Studio. Prior to her visit, I talked with Lockwood on the phone about her childhood, her music, Ruth Anderson, and more. All photos were taken by Julia Dratel unless otherwise noted.

Joshua Minsoo Kim: In Chicago you’ll be setting up an installation for the Sound Map of the Danube. That’s always been a very meaningful album for me—can you talk to me about your plans for the installation?

Annea Lockwood: Oh sure! It’s a 5.1 setup. When I completed the sound map in 2005, a 5.1 setup seemed to be a fairly common and possible setup for galleries and museums, in Europe especially. It seemed practical, and I like multichannel works. Speakers are arranged in a circle—there’s no relation to the normal 5.1 arrangement—so the various sites and sounds circle around the listener over time. It’s a lovely arrangement to work with. On a wall is a very big map of the river—it’s a big river (laughter)—it’s 3 feet high and 6 feet long and printed on archival canvas so that it looks and feels like a map.

I hired a cartographer and a graphic designer to make it for me which was sort of a thrill because I’ve loved maps all my life. I don’t read them well (laughter) but I love them. It was made by an American cartographer Baker Vail and graphic designer Susan Huyser. They worked together on it beautifully and have also done the Housatonic sound map for me—that was lovely.

It was a very tricky map, we were assembling it from German cyclist road maps and ordinary auto maps for Hungary and Serbia and Croatia, and little local maps I picked up all over the place—it was a real job putting it together. The map hangs on a wall and next to it is a time display that was made for me by Roland Babl of bablTech in Austria. It gets triggered at the beginning of the sound file—there’s a special signal sent to the time display—and it counts up indefinitely. It runs on lithium batteries, it’ll go forever. It’s retriggered once the sound file is looped.

By means of the time display, you can track which part of the river you’re listening to—all sites on the river are indicated numerically going downstream. They’re named, and there are dates and times of day given for each site because people can really respond to that. And rivers do keep changing all the time at any one site. There’s other additional information—I recorded tadpoles at one site in Austria and you would never guess what that sound was so I indicate what it is. You can keep track of where you are, and I set up really comfortable seating because I think the more relaxed the listener’s body is, the longer he or she might spend with the map, and the more the sound is able to flow through the body. I’m always interested in how one’s body responds to sound.

I’ve heard a lot of field recordings, but when I listen to your sound maps they stand out because they’re clearly very powerful works. I do get a physiological response from listening to them. Though, part of that is because growing up—as a teenager—I almost drowned in the Pacific ocean.

Oh my god.

A stranger came and saved me—they put me on their back and swam back to shore. When I hear recordings of large bodies of water I generally don’t have a reaction but there’s a real sense of power when listening to your sound maps and I’ll occasionally think of that experience. I think it’s a testament to how well it’s all recorded.

Can I ask something? When listening to the sound maps and the memories come up, do they have as much of a disturbing impact as usual or is it all mitigated by what you’re hearing—how does that work? Does it make you relaxed to listen to water (laughs)?

It depends! There are points in the Sound Map of the Danube album when I feel the strength of the water and it can be terrifying, but there are points where it’s not, where it’s peaceful. The thing I love about it is the way you weave in the sounds of people talking about the river.

Oh yeah, thank you.

Listening to those people helps me understand what the river means to them and I then consider all my personal associations with water, and it becomes this intermingling of different emotions. I wanted to ask—clearly you enjoy talking with people, can you recall for me a conversation that you had with a stranger that has stuck with you for a long time?

The question is, in a sense, too easily answered by memories of talking with the people along the Danube, especially because I’ve been listening to it again (laughter). I’ve also been looking at the Hudson lately. But one that was particularly poignant for me on the Danube was an elderly fisherman living in Kopačevo, who I think fished near the Kopački Rit—let me pull out the map because I don’t always trust my memory (laughs), I’ll be a moment (looks at map).

The fisherman was Janós Horvát, now where is he… I’m looking at the liner notes. (pause). Kopačevo, that’s right, and a very big, beautiful lake where I recorded a heronry and fish jumping and put his voice with that. He was very poignant because talking with him about what fishing had been like in the backchannels of the river, and how rich it had been—it had been very obvious, and he presented it really clearly, that the fishermen themselves had kept those channels clear. They had been giving back to the river even as they were taking from it. They kept the flow clear, kept the channels clear. Every year they would get together and had huge wooden—I don’t know what you would call them—like the scooping part of a bulldozer. They would drag those on ropes to clear weeds away and deepen the channel a little bit.

Then that area—they call the Auen, it’s the wetlands really, the backwaters—it became a national park. The channels and that particular area of wetlands became protected and the fisherman were kicked out, which was extremely hard for them of course. He was old enough that he couldn’t really start again—he lost his livelihood. What mattered just as much to him was the channels began to grow over and disappear, no one was clearing them. The clarity of reciprocity between the fisherman and the river—which had been an operation—and what had happened when it was dismantled… it was devastating to hear about.

I can see myself and Ruth Anderson, who traveled with me—I can see her sitting at his table drinking something like Sprite (laughs). Or an orange drink, very sweet. And I had my mic and a little tripod stand on the table and he was just talking with us, getting more and more relaxed. He was a lovely person, very gentle. There were other poignant stories as I went along the river but that was particularly so.

You grew up in Christchurch—

New Zealand, that’s right.

What’s your earliest memory of spending time in the water, or being around water?

Oh, how powerful rivers are. My father was a lawyer but also, even more, a climber and ski mountaineer. And before meeting my mother he had bought a little cabin up in the Southern Alps along with friends who were setting up a ski resort. So of course as kids we spent summers and winter holidays up there—we had ski school—and we went climbing with my father. And from very early on, one of the things he would talk to us about was the power of the rivers, which are wild as they flow out of the mountains of course—they’re very strong. He talked about how you could never trust a river that looked serene. As you’re starting to cross one, rainfall further up would unleash a whole flood that would rush downstream very fast.

So he impressed us with that, with the strength of the rivers. Or at least I understood it ultimately as that they’re phenomena beyond our control, which I like a lot (laughs). I really like that. And then the little hut was by one of the rivers—the Bealey—and my brother and I would often go to sleep at night hearing kiwis calling across the river, which was a rare occurrence even back then in the ‘50s. And we didn’t often hear them but I was listening to the river in the process of trying to hear through it to the bush. I grew up listening closely to rivers and with a huge respect and interest in them.

My other impression of water is of the Pacific. How strong the riptides are. We would go swimming when my father quit work for the day and in the summer we would just drive down to the ocean near Christchurch and it was freezing. It was never not freezing. Was it freezing where you were as a kid?

(laughs). Yes, yes it was.

(sighs). Yea the Atlantic doesn’t seem nearly as cold, or at least around the areas I’ve encountered. But the Pacific (sighs) love that ocean, though.

You said that you’re drawn to how these bodies of water are beyond our control. How do you try to convey that when capturing the sounds you do?

I honestly don’t think I can answer that—I can’t use words to answer it. What I’m listening for when I sit down and start listening to a particular spot is how the river’s energy comes through. It can be that the whole river is clearly energized—moving fast and full of sound. Or it can just be that it comes up against rocks and circumnavigates them and creates these wonderful gurgles. I’m listening for the river’s energy—with the Danube, consciously, and with the Hudson without realizing it. I was recording not because it was commissioned, it was just something I wanted to do and Ruth said, “We can afford it, do it!” (laughs).

Anyway, it was something I wanted to do because I wanted to know what a river is and I don’t think I got at that with the Hudson. And I thought I could make better recordings than I made with the Hudson, and tackle it differently. With both I involved people but by the time I came to do the Danube, it became clear to me that humans are part of the riparian environment. And that the river creates that whole riparian environment, including the lives of the humans who depend on it and live near it. We ultimately have no more control of the river than the frogs or anything else which lives around the trees and plants. We’re just part of this ecology. I wanted the voices to be within the water sounds—not separate.

With the Hudson I had the voices at a separate station and you could choose to listen to them or not and that no longer seemed right—why should they be separate, you know? And besides, I keep trying to assert, as I get older, that we are not separate from these phenomena. We are beyond entangled, we are interdependent with them. I keep trying to find more and more ways of presenting that idea to people—presenting that reality—not an idea to my mind, it’s a reality.

In the interviews I’ve seen where you talk about Ruth, it’s evident that she inspired you a lot. Can you name one or two things that she helped you learn, be it in your compositional approach or about yourself as a person.

Oh! (laughs). Something that comes to mind immediately is how she had something she lived by which she applied to both of us: “We can do anything!” And it was so empowering and, sure enough, we went and built a house ourselves. I mean—we did! She was right! But now that she’s gone—she died near the end of November—I’m realizing more and more strongly (and this was something I had known but had not quite seen so clearly) is how much we mutually supported one another’s work. She would encourage me in every possible way. I doubt myself frequently and she would always counter that—she wasn’t having any! (laughs).

She stopped composing when she got chronic fatigue in the mid-’80s—it interfered with her ability to compose, I mean she got it really badly. She stopped composing with sound, but she didn’t stop making things. I would continually tell her, “You’re a composer!” And she would say, “No, not anymore.” And I would say “Once a composer, always a composer!” Which is true, of course (laughs). We gave each other a lot of support.

Something very beautiful is beginning to happen. It’s similar to what I’m doing in Chicago. In Austria, at the beginning of April, in Graz. We were putting together a concert program which includes some electroacoustic pieces and Gerhard Eckel, the composer who’s organizing it, asked if we’d like to include a piece by Ruth and I jumped at it! He had one already chosen and I was so pleased. And then I mentioned this to the SEAMUS organization in Charlottesville, which is having their annual conference in the middle of March, and they decided to program three of her pieces to be played back in a listening room. And finally I’m doing something in Berlin in July, and the woman organizing that festival also asked if I’d like to include a piece of Ruth’s. That’s really nice, I like it. I think Peter Margasak [curator of Frequency Festival] would have gone for it too but we were all set with the Chicago program long ago.

She also has her first solo album coming out at the end of the month. It’s on Arc Light, which is a UK label run by Jennifer Allan. Five of her pieces, two of which have never been released before—it’s thrilling. Her music is coming into people’s awareness again.

Can you share what you like about Ruth Anderson’s work?

Some of it is extremely funny (laughter). Have you heard any of it?

Yes I have.

Which ones have you heard?

I’ve heard “Dump” and “State of the Union Message.”

The latter really makes me laugh. And she was a very funny person, and very playful. And there are pieces which are sonic meditations in a way—”Points” and “I Come Out of Your Sleep.” “Points” is a sine tone piece. Pure sine tones, which are the devil to manage (laughter). Especially in analog, you know? Everything has to be so clean.

What I love about both of those pieces besides the fact they’re so acoustically rich—they’re great to listen to—is that they slow all the body rhythms I’m aware of. They slow me down to a state in which I’m just at peace. She intended that with them. She talks about unity with oneself so that you no longer have that little voice on your shoulder—you can let it go. She talks about the body being totally relaxed, totally open—she was very interested in sound and healing. We, with two other people, experimented with that for quite a while. And those two pieces just make me feel so at peace and so part of everything when I listen to them.

“I Come Out of Your Sleep” is actually a quad piece. She’s whispering the vowel sounds—she extracted the vowel sounds from a poem by Louise Bogan, an American poet, and it’s a haunting poem actually. She extracted the vowel sounds and whispered them. Being a flutist—(through laughter) she could use her voice. She whispered them and created a four-channel canon from them, and each one takes an entire breath to produce. Each vowel or combination of vowels takes a whole, slow breath—she had great breath control. It moves slowly and it becomes fuller and fuller, it’s just beautiful as it circles around the four speakers. How those pieces make me feel is one of the things I love about them, and I love her ideas.

The last piece she worked on she called, I think, “Furnishing the Yard” or “Furnishing the Garden”—I’m never quite sure. Probably “Yard” because she was a Westerner (laughter). On the day in which the garbage people would pick up your discarded furniture and so on, we would pick up discarded chairs and she would set them out in the garden at all sorts of angles and in all sorts of places just to fall apart, for the weather to work on, for the snow to work on, for the animals to work on—she would just leave them there. One of them is an old-fashioned chair for a kid who is about two, going on three—it’s about the right height for that. And she placed it partway up the trunk of a tulip tree in our backyard and it just sits there and the tree is putting out little branches which coil around it in the summer. Squirrels land on it (laughter). And everything just sits there, it’s a lovely piece with everything falling apart, disintegrating slowly.

Thanks for sharing all that, that was really nice.

Oh, you’re welcome.

Also in Chicago, you have a piece that you wrote for Nate Wooley he’s performing called “Becoming Air.” What’s that piece about?

Ah, happy to talk about that. We did a rehearsal of it yesterday at ISSUE Project Room and it went beautifully. I came home on a cloud (sighs). Nate asked me for a piece for solo trumpet for his project that involved deepening the solo trumpet repertoire. It had never occurred to me to write for solo trumpet. I’d written a duo ages ago for trumpet and trombone but not solo trumpet. The idea seemed like a real challenge to me, not something I would have thought of, but I knew what an interesting composer and performer he is. So I went over to his place, which is pretty much how I start working with musicians on most commissions. We sat down and drank some tea and I asked him—he having sent me CDs in the interim and me having read his writings—I asked him what sounds he was exploring at the moment.

We discovered that we both are fascinated by the moment at which a sound you’re generating takes on properties you didn’t expect. My way of looking at it is that the sound takes over, it flips control. It’s not that you are no longer able to make it, it’s that you are no longer shaping the sound—it’s off in its own direction. I got into that with The Glass Concert and Nate’s always been into it. We had really good common ground.

I took Nate’s sounds and then I went off to Montana for the summer and began to figure out a progression from one type of sound to the next general type to the next and so on. I took it back to him and that was the underlying structure. It was a broad structure but I was pretty specific about which sounds of his that he’d given me that I was most interested in. Then we started working on it and he would take a sound and push it further and further and we came up with “Becoming Air.”

The tam-tam is there because I wanted to create a larger acoustic space around the trumpet. And I love tam-tams anyway (laughter). It seems to crop up in a lot of my pieces. But I felt as if I could create an acoustic shell of sound around the trumpet. We resisted ending with breath sounds for obvious reasons, we weren’t gonna do that (laughter).

He premiered it at ISSUE Project Room for a series of performances for newly commissioned trumpet works. That place has amazing acoustics so we were playing off the acoustics too. But it keeps growing, we keep refining it, he keeps finding new things, they find their way into it. The rehearsal yesterday was beautiful, it just flows. I was knocked out. He uses a thin piece of aluminum that he holds against the bell of the instrument and he just bought and cut a new piece. It was able to distinctively do things that the piece he had been using for a while couldn’t do. And we get wrapped up in that sort of thing; that new piece of aluminum makes the most amazing buzzing sounds, just gorgeous. That’s how that piece is—it continues to grow, we continue to do things. I love working that way.

Clearly you’ve traveled to a lot of places. Are there any particular cities that you’re most fond of, or would like to go back to? Do you mind sharing any of those and the memories you have associated with them?

I love San Francisco, and I love working there. I did a short residency at The Lab a couple years ago of which William Winant and Fred Frith did Jitterbug which was an astonishing performance (laughs). You can imagine, with those two. I’ve always loved the city, I like being by the Pacific. It reminds me of home and I have a number of friends there. Maggi Payne has been lending me one of her terrific hydrophones for years.

Two of my great memories of San Francisco are not of performances at all. They’re of Laetitia Sonami, Brenda Hutchinson, Maggi and myself all having dinner together. The first time we did this was about five or six years ago. And we had the best time! And we all know each other’s music well and love it so there’s a lot to build on. We loved it and we said we should do it again, so when I was at The Lab, we did it again!

This time we met at Laetitia’s house and—oh I love this—one of us, I’m not quite sure which, maybe it was Maggi, thought it would be a good idea if we recorded our conversation. So we sort of debated that a little and Maggi brought gear with her and set up and got everything just the way it needed to be. And Brenda said, “You can’t monitor it.” And for Maggi, the concept of recording without monitoring was unimaginable, but she didn’t! And we recorded our conversation so we could hear it back again—we sent the files around and we all have them. We mutually decided that this was not for broadcast and that it was a private event, it’s a private file. That’s one of my fondest memories of San Francisco.

But I first went there years and years ago. I think I was first in San Francisco in 1972 and I think that was when Charles Amirkhanian decided that Pauline Oliveros and I, who had been communicating for a long time by then but had never physically met, should physically meet. So he had us both on one of his shows on KPFM and that was amazing. It’s archived now and online somewhere or other. I’ve been going back and forth to San Francisco for a number of years now with such pleasure.

What about that interaction with Pauline was amazing for you?

Because our communications had been so open-hearted—we shared a lot—it was just amazing to see the expressions on her face, to hear her voice and her intonations shifting, things she responded to, things that I responded to. It was deeply enlivening to just be in the same space communicating with each other so strongly. It was great. And then she became an influence on my life (laughter). It was Pauline who suggested to Ruth that Ruth hire me—Pauline knew I wanted to come over here and be working. Ruth needed a substitute to teach in her electronic music studio at Hunter [College] while she took a sabbatical. She wanted someone who would not be incompatible with the way she was running it so Pauline suggested me and that got me over to the States.

Years afterward, in the early 2000s, Pauline and Ione married in Canada. They said, “You should think about it.” (laughter). So in 2005, Ruth and I drove up from where we were in Montana, about three hours north above the Canadian border and we got married in Cranbrook. I used to tell Pauline that she changed my life and she would never take responsibility for it.

You stated how you kept in contact with Pauline and it had been quite a while until you had actually seen her face to face. Was this something that was true of you and other musicians you kept in contact with?

Not so much so because when I was living in London, where I was for a long time, I was interested in the American new music scene anyway and American musicians—the Sonic Arts Union people, Charlotte Moorman and Nam June Paik, David Rosenboom and a whole bunch of other people—would keep coming through London and doing performances and I would get to meet them. Pauline was really the one person who stands out to me who I didn’t get to meet before I came over here, or at least when I came on that ‘72 visit—I moved here in ‘73.

I’d been lucky to have met so many American new music people while I had been in London, and when I came over here there was such a vibrant community in and around New York. It was so welcoming and generous. All of a sudden there were all sorts of invitations to make new work and present at this gallery and at this loft and so on. It was amazing and wonderful, the generosity of that scene is still really impressive and beautiful. There was a community here and I became part of it, little by little.

Do you still feel like that community exists today?

(laughs). Oh yeah, absolutely.

Obviously you make new work still, but what does a typical day look like for you?

Two cups of coffee and the New York Times (laughter). Scare the squirrels away from the bird food for a while (laughter). I’m laughing but that’s really what this morning started like. And now at the moment I’m working on three talks—for Chicago and Graz and Charlottesville—which I’m trying to keep straight, one from another. I’m also organizing sound clips. That’s not an untypical day. Sometimes I go straight from the New York Times to email, sometimes I put email off for a few hours and then tackle it. If I’m working on a piece down in the studio then I’ll get up, have breakfast, I would have chatted with Ruth, sorted out the day, and then worked for four or five hours straight. But that would be as much as my brain would do. I’d come upstairs and do officework—emails and arrangements and organizational stuff.

I used to work all night. The last few years I had been quitting work at five o’clock so that Ruth and I had from then on to be together, to do things together. She was losing vision so I would read her the paper. Make dinner, relax—things like that. 

Annea Lockwood and Ruth Anderson approximately four years ago at their home in Flathead Lake, Montana. Photo courtesy of Lockwood.

 

What are some things that you and Ruth would do to relax?

Just sitting together with not-particularly-consequential conversation coming and going. Something which really was nice was reading together, either aloud or alone together. Or listening to music of course. Or just sitting out on the deck. In Montana it’s so easy, we would just walk out onto our deck and the house we built is 14 feet away from a lakeshore so it’s right there. It’s near Glacier Park. We would just go out on our deck and see the light changing on the lake and it’s constantly shifting, and the lake’s surface is constantly changing. It’s a big lake so weather systems would move across the lake and we’d watch them come and go and come and go. We’d track the bird life—just be in that environment, you know?

I’ll conclude with a final question: What do you want for listeners to take from your work? And has what you wanted listeners to take away from your work changed throughout the years?

I think it has changed, but it’s not so much that it’s changed as it has broadened. Or that I’ve been able to focus more and express verbally what I was aiming for. When I look back to “Tiger Balm” from 1970, it’s very clear to me—and I knew it already from working on programs for the BBC—how interested I was, and how important it was becoming for me, to learn and take into account how people’s bodies respond to sound. That, in addition to my childhood, made me interested in the rivers.

I got more and more interested in traditions in which the sounds and the environment of rivers are healing. I perked up and started recording rivers and that led me into seeing and sensing how rivers create their environments and how we are intertwined with rivers, and then I get to where I am now. Where the sound and the phenomena around us—if we’re able to let those sounds flow through our bodies—they become conduits of connection through which one feels a part of that phenomena, deeply integrated with it. We can recognize how deeply integrated we are with everything that’s around us. And with that, conservation flows and it’s all just one unfolding train of thought, really, and it just got clearer as I got older. Is that making sense?

Oh yes that makes total sense. I forgot that I wanted to ask this: do you have any book recommendations?

Oooh—Donna Haraway. Liz Phillips, a very good friend with whom I’m working at the moment, she and her husband Earl Howard put a book of Donna Haraway’s into my hand and I started reading it a year ago. It rang all sorts of bells and enlightened me in all sorts of ways. Staying with the Trouble is the title. That became a real influence, and I just started reading Enlivenment: Toward a Poetics for the Anthropocene by Andreas Weber. Plus a few thrillers here and there. Plus I picked up a book on the Rhine by somebody called Ben Coates. It’s a traveling-down-the-Rhine book, and I’m always curious how people experience those sorts of journeys, of course.

 

Annea Lockwood’s Tiger Balm / Amazonia Dreaming / Immersion is out now on Black Truffle. Ruth Anderson’s Here is out now on Arc Light Editions.


Download Corner

Every issue, Tone Glow provides download links to older, obscure albums that we believe deserve highlighting. Each download will be accompanied by a brief description of the album. Artists and labels can contact Tone Glow if you would like to see download links removed.

Ben Bertrand: ‘I soundcheck in my bedroom’

Ben Bertrand is a Belgian bass clarinetist and composer. With his instrument and countless machines, Ben creates his live sets with a hypnotic web of sounds. Listening to his music is like sitting at the sea, watching a slow motion of our crazy lives sailing by. With his works (Era/Area, Off-Record 2017 and NGC 1999, les albums Claus 2018), Ben has toured in Belgium, France and the Netherlands (Meakusma Festival, Ancienne Belgique, Le Lieu Unique, BRDCST Festival, Schiev Festival, Le Guess Who?, World Minimal Music Festival). His new album, Manes, was released in March in collaboration with Stroom and les albums claus.

You have a brand new release out. Can you talk about it? 

This is my second solo release. I recorded it at les ateliers claus, an amazing concert space and studio in Brussels. It is released on Stroom in collaboration with les albums claus, the label of les ateliers claus. For this album, I got inspired by a lot of different types of music, such as Morton Feldman, Ligeti and Renaissance polyphony, among others. I tried to write a tribute to our ancestors. The Manes are the souls of ancestors, worshipped as benevolent spirits.

Was it meant like a requiem?

Not really. Requiem is more of a complaint. My thoughts were more about a certain gratefulness.

How did you compose the album?

I composed it with my bass clarinet, effect pedals and several loopers. On one hand, I analyzed how some composers composed their music and I used some of their techniques. On the other hand, I also looked for ways of playing my instrument that permit me to really interact with the effects pedals.

I compose my music with a stage performance in mind. Playing for an audience is really important to me. 

Have you had any shows where things didn’t go the way you thought they would?

The unexpected happens all the time and you have to deal with it. But if you are well prepared, when you come on stage, anything can happen and you will react perfectly. It’s quite stressful sometimes, especially in big venues. So when I rehearse, I imagine myself going on stage. I soundcheck in my bedroom. I tell myself “I’m going on stage in 10 minutes. I’m fucking scared”. When I arrive at the moment of the gig itself, it’s a familiar feeling already, and I can manage it better. 

Do you have stage fright?

For me, it’s more before doing the soundcheck. After the soundcheck, I’m confident. It’s as if you were a pilot, you do all the sequences – record the sound in this loop, use a certain effect, etc. If you are prepared the music can live on its own. 

How does your day look like? 

I have the routine of a classical musician: I work 2, 3 hours per day on classical and contemporary music and then 2, 3 hours on composition/improvisation. Music creation is my main occupation, but I also teach music at a school for blind teenagers. 

There are actually not so many blind performers in this experimental, underground scene.

No. Actually, there are almost no blind people playing music on stage. My colleague who is a pianist is blind too. He knows like 5,000 pop songs. You just tell him which song you want to sing and he plays it. The kids at school often tell me I’m not fast enough. When I teach them, I give them a song, come back a week later and I sing the song again and they tell me: “Mr, that’s not OK, you’ve made a mistake. You didn’t begin on the right pitch.” They have the perfect pitch memory.  

Photo: Julie Calbert

Interview by Lucia Udvardyova

  • BB

“In 1949, in celebration of the seventy-fifth birthday of Arnold Schoenberg, the United States Section of the International Society of Contemporary Music arranged for the first performance of this work in over twenty-four years, under the auspicious direction of Dimitri Mitropoulos. The ISCM has, in the years since its inception in 1923, been enterprising in bringing to performance the works of many contemporary composers whose works might otherwise go unheard and unnoticed either because of their difficulty, or because of prejudice against their “modernity.”

Since the larger record companies have with little exception always been over-cautions in producing any recordings that might seem out of the ordinary, one can really appreciate the sympathy, confidence, and artistic interest of Counterpoint Records in placing their facilities at the disposal of Mr. Mitropoulos and his distinguished colleagues, to record brilliantly this significant work.

It goes almost without saying that audiences and composers have for a long time been in the debt of Dimitri Mitropoulos. Such courage and imagination in presenting works of immense importance is seldom to be met in the all-too-commercial world of music today.2 “

 

 

Schönberg’s Serenade Op.24. Schönberg composed it between 1920 and 1923, writing most of the material in 1923. It is neoclassical in style, and has seven movements lasting over a half an hour in all. It is scored for clarinet, bass clarinet, mandolin, guitar, violin, viola, and cello. At those times he was working simultaneously on two other landmark compositions: the Five Piano Pieces, opus 23, and the Suite for Piano, opus 25.7 As a group, these works mark a transition from the atonality exemplified by The Five Orchestral Pieces, opus 16, in Erwartung, opus 17, and Pierrot lunaire, opus 21; to the ‘twelve-tone style’ of works like the Wind Quintet, opus 26, the Third String Quartet, opus 30, and the Variations for Orchestra, opus 31.

Of the seven movements, all but two make use of a twelve-tone row (a series of all the possible chromatic tones chosen at the discretion of the composer to suit all his musical purposes). The Third movement (Variations) uses an eleven-tone series; and the sixty movement (Song Without Words) is composed in free style. In only one of the movements does Schoenberg make use of vocal possibilities — the Fourth movement, where a Baritone voice intones the Sonnet, No. 217, of the medieval Italian poet Petrarca, with the other instruments accompanying. 

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The other movements evoke classical forms, fitting for movements of a serenade. The first movement is a march, the second a menuet, and the third a theme and variations. After the sonnet, there is a “dance scene,” a brief Lied ohne Worte, and a finale that recapitulates material from other movements, especially the march, which returns to close the work. The inclusion of a substantial guitar part, unprecedented and unrepeated in Schoenberg’s works, marks the entrance of this instrument into the music of the twentieth-century avant-garde.

Leos Janacek, upon hearing its performance in September 1925 in Venice, remarked that the Serenade was a piece of ‘Viennese strumming.’8 Charles Rosen puts it beautifully: “The ostensibly light character of the Serenade, opus 24, is still a stumbling block in appreciating its merits; its high gloss can awaken resentment.”

Coming after a long break in production, between the years 1916 and 1923, the Serenade marks a definite stylistic shift. Schoenberg was turning away from the expressionistic tone of his previous works, and moving towards a more elegant and controlled sound. Pierre Boulez, in his infamous article “Schoenberg is Dead,” saw the neoclassicism of these pieces as an undue recourse to tradition. In his view, the concept of serialism demanded a total rethinking of musical form.3Charles Rosen proposes that serialism was, in effect, a conservative solution to the problems of atonality, and as such, an integral function of Schoenberg’s neoclassical style. He cites Schoenberg’s apparent dissatisfaction (in his later writings) with the lack of unity in works such as the Pieces for Orchestra and Erwartung. He writes: “The invention of serialism was specifically a move to resurrect an old classicism as well as to make a new one possible.”4 In other words, Schoenberg was not retreating into tradition upon ‘discovering’ serial technique. Thus, what happens when a composer uses the chromatic series is still “tonality,” or as Schoenberg put it “composing with tones.”

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There is some disagreement about which movements in the Serenade use twelve-tone rows, and which do not. The author, unidentified, of the liner notes for the world premiere recording of the Serenade claims that only two movements are non-twelve-tone: the Variations (which use an eleven-note row), and the Lied ohne Worte. Whatever the case, it seems clear from a hearing of the Serenade that the instrumental movements draw on the proto-serialist techniques of transposition, inversion, and retrograding, but show a high degree of freely melodic and rhythmic motivicism. The Sonnet is the one movement in which a twelve-note row is clearly exposed.

The Serenade was first world premiered for a private gathering at the home of Dr. Schwarzmann in Vienna on May 2ndy, 1924, with Schoenberg conducting. Italian music writer Enzo Restagno wrote in his book “Schonberg e Stravinsky Storia di un’amicizia impossibile” that Schwarzmann’s home in Krugerstrasse 175, should have been a nice big home, big and comfy enough to permit to an ensemble to play inside. The guitar player who premiered that evening was Hans Schlagradl.

In 1924 the Serenade was also performed on July 20th in Donaueschingen festival6, where Schoenber was invited by prince Egon von Fustenberg.7

The Italian premiere of the Serenade, opus 24, was played on September 7th , 1925 during the ISCM festival in Venice, still with Hans Schlagradl playing the guitar’s parts. ISCM festival was born in 1922 from Internationale Kammermusik-Auffuhrungen organized with Salisburg’s festival with the participation of Webern, Hindemith,Bartok, Kodaly, Honegger and Milhaud. It was a great success and several ISCM’s sections was born in different countries organizing several music festivals.8

Jeremy Bass wrote about Hans Schlagradl: “( Schlagradl) was born in 1897, studied with Jakob Ortner (who also taught Louise Walker) and was performing in the 1920s and 1930s, sometimes as a member of the Vienna Guitar Quartet.5 Nevertheless, what can be inferred from Schlagradl’s performance under Schoenberg’s baton is that in the 1920s, the level of musicianship of Viennese classical guitarists was exceptionally high”.9

The American premiere, according to Carlos Salzedo, took place in Aeloian Haoo, New York City, on Marh 1, 1925, at a concert of the International Composers Guild. Conducted by Leopold Stokowski, the ensemble of was made up of the first chairs of the the Philadelphia Orchestra, and the work was well received. The Serenade, in common with the other compositions Schoenberg continues to produce, is eminently expressive of his artistic integrity, his imagination and his desire to explore and to bring to understanding the wealth of experience possible in the art of sound that we call music.10

Enzo Restagno suggests that the term Serenade us back to a very practiced genre in Vienna in the eighteenth century, which involved the use of string instruments and wind. The use of the guitar and the mandolin is a quite unusual element, which will no longer be replicated by the composer later, and serves to introduce unexpected timbral combinations. The musical reflection of Schoenberg that focuses on a confluence of elements too cultured and popular, not to mention a popular music genre vienneseche dated from the mid-nineteenth century and was still widely practiced in the years of his youth: the Schrammelmusik. The graft of this popular genre within the Serenade demonstrates the complex and elaborate process of metabolism which Schoenberg submitted elements of popular tradition in its most intellectually daring compositional operations.11

Curiously the American music critic Alex Ross in his book “The rest is noise” wrote: “even as Schoenberg vented against the popular styles of the day, he not so subtly assimilated them in his music. The Serenade, for example, originally had movements titeld “Jo-Jo-Foxtrot,” “Film Dva,” and “Teen Sky”.12

By comparison, for the world premiere recording of the Serenade, which took place in 1948 in New York, no competent classical guitarist could be found. The great jazz guitarist Johnny Smith (listed as “John Smith” on the record sleeve) played the guitar part. I think that for this recording, Smith gave a superlative performance, even if he played his steel-string archtop guitar and not a classic one. Maybe his sound blends perhaps excessively. It’s fun to think that this premier was played by a not classical guitarist.

Smith-obit-master1050

John Henry “Johnny” Smith13(June 25, 1922 – June 11, 2013) in fact was an American cool jazz and mainstream jazz guitarist, inducted into the Alabama Jazz Hall of Fame. He was famous in the pop-rock scenes because he wrote the tune “Walk, Don’t Run” in 1954. An extremely diverse musician, Johnny Smith was equally at home playing in the famous Birdland jazz clubor sight-reading scores in the orchestral pit of the New York Philharmonic. From Schoenberg to Gershwin to originals, Smith was one of the most versatile guitarists of the 1950s. As a staff studio guitarist and arranger for NBC from 1946 to 1951, and on a freelance basis thereafter until 1958, he played in a variety of settings from solo to full orchestra and had his own trio, The Playboys, with Mort Lindsey and Arlo Hults. His most critically acclaimed album was Moonlight in Vermont (one of Down Beat magazine’s top two jazz records for 1952, featuring saxophonist Stan Getz). As we said before, his most famous musical composition is the tune “Walk Don’t Run“, written for a 1954 recording session as counter-melody to the chord changes of “Softly, as in a Morning Sunrise”. This tune was covered by a lot of personas and groups: fingerpicking guitarist Chet Atkins recored a neo-classical rendition of the song on the electric guitar for his Hi Fi in Focus album which preceded the famous Ventures’ hit by three years.

 

 

Guild, Gibson, and Heritage have all made guitar models designed and endorsed by Johnny Smith. In each case, the guitar was designed wholly or in part by Smith. Each design was a full-bodied archtop guitar with a top carved from solid spruce and a back and sides made of solid maple. All the on-board electronics for each guitar, from the small pickup in the neck position through the volume knob to the output jack, were mounted on the pickguard.

Different versions of this record:

Serenade Opus 24 (LP, Album, Red) Esoteric, Esoteric ES-501, ES 501, US, 1949

Serenade Opus 24 (LP, Album, RE, Mono) Counterpoint / Esoteric Records, Counterpoint CPT 501, US, 1958

Serenade Op. 24 (1923) For Septet And Baritone Voice (LP, Album, RE) Counterpoint / Esoteric Records CPTS 5501, US, 1968

Serenade Op. 24 (1923) Pour Septuor Et Baryton (LP) Barclay 920113, France, date unknown

1 Esoteric was American label established in 1949 by Bill Fox and Jerry Newman. The label was renamed to Counterpoint in 1957, and eventually, after being first sold to Eichler Record Corporation in 1960, and then to Everest Record Group in 1963, to Counterpoint / Esoteric Records.

2 notes by Ben Weber in the back of the record

3Pierre Boulez. “Shoenberg is Dead” in Notes of an Apprenticeship pag 268

4Charles Rosen, Arnold Schoenberg, pag 73

5 Enzo Restagno- Schonberg e Stravinsky-pag. 162-163

6Robert Craft in the notes of Schoenberg Variation for ML 5244

7 Enzo Restagno- Schonberg e Stravinsky-pag. 175

8 Enzo Restagno- Schonberg e Stravinsky-pag. 134

9Jeremy Bass, The Guitar in A. Schoenberg’s Serenade opus 24, Academia.edu pag. 1

10 notes by Ben Weber in the back of the record

11 Enzo Restagno- Schonberg e Stravinsky-pag. 167-168

12Alex Ross, The Rest si Noise, pag. 216

13http://www.johnnysmith.org/