The morning fog in Venice is thick but our hazy red giant still manages to shine through and reflect off the water. Another dead end street leads me to the canal, I wonder how many have fallen in for good. Death seems very close here, even the gondolas look like floating coffins. The striped boatmen rowing Japanese tourists to a mind numbing capitalist purgatory. I find a small bench facing the dawn. Staring at the point 10 degrees below our hallowed Ra and blinking, letting the light recharge my atoms and cells- this is a little exercise I try to do each each day. I open my palms and smile inside, tanking up on the good stuff- a ten minute respite. The soundscape is a soothing one,there is something calming in the frequency of lapping waves and no engines within earshot. I meditate this morning on the Schuman wave theory, something that has been with me a lot of late. This theory defines the wave lengths and types that are produced naturally between the earth and the Ionosphere. I remember that around 100 lightning strikes each second around the world are enough to perpetually stimulate these huge waves. I estimate that around 240 Billion lightning strikes of a different kind occur each day when the eyes of people meet.
I choose the fire taxi instead of the water taxi, it skims over a strip of oil and protects me from accidently going to purgatory instead of to the Venice Airport Difficult Jet check in. Through the crackling flames I hear nokia mobiles ringing and people speaking in numbers. I hear the odd “seven” but mostly only zeros and ones. Someone asks “are you on facebook?” with a sleek Russian accent and then is immediately eaten by a three headed dog wearing a stripped shirt with the logo “just do me” on it. I look back to the sun, my fire in the sky, a possible home, my oldest friend. A scarlet woman is riding it and riding it well. A Japanese man with permanent sunglasses and Vitamin D deficiency called Keiji Haino who I once accompanied in New Zealand screams out a challenge to fate, the dog spits out the nokia and burps, my fire taxi speeds home:
In the musical spheres I have been involved with, mystics of all sorts are never far away. I was first attracted to the writings of Alice Bailey and the Theosophists as a teenager after Braxton dropped their names in an interview. It is interesting to track some long voyages back to their source. In a sense, if we musicians are inspired by the mystical writings of Swami X or Master Y, it doesn´t really matter if their message is perfectly true or not, what matters is how we interpret it. That having been said, it is perhaps more important that ever to discern between facts and fantasy in a world of overwhelming digital opinion masked as information. I recently traced some of the figures behind the music/mysticism of Steve Coleman and came again across Schwaller de Lubicz, an interesting case study and a good example of a mystic who is easy to believe until you read closer between the lines. Here is an essay by someone I admire a lot, a woman who has been unjustly cut down viscously for her unorthodox views on what is not quite kosher with this mystic and others like him. To go with the fare, two of my early mystic-inspired works:
The Stanzas of Dzyan:
Early Morning Invocation:
After a long night of recording 12 tone music for String Trio it´s now early morning and I am pacing down the underpass in the grey of Berlin Schoenefeld Airport to make the flight to Venice. Boarding in 10 minutes. On the way a lone accordion player is serenading the rushers-by. In a single sweeping gesture I reach into my pocket and prepare a large frozen coin for tossing. Don´t think about it, just throw away your money. As I cast it into his humble sack I sense it slicing through the cold mist like a ninja shuriken and his gaze picks up on the silver around the edge of the 2 euro coin, giving away its worth in mid-flight. For a split second time is slowed right down to the minimum and a portal is opened within the e minor chord he plays followed by f sharp diminished. His eyes light up during the coin´s curved trajectory and for a moment he forgets his frozen fingers, he is the unknowing gate-keeper. The two euros causes his modulations to be more daring and the chords are more richly voiced. He now plays the Tristan chord without knowing and through the chord I enter the portal but let my body keep walking down the underpass to check in, go through security, take the flight to Venice, test the sound in the opera house, drink espresso, stare out into the canals, and continue appearing to live normally. Looks like a puff of animated steam, blue, shooting skywards through your head, a once-part of you. Life like this is an ever-peeling cocoon and when all the layers have been stripped away and liberated into the ether like this one through the Tristan chord, our physical husk can release its last outward breath in peace leaving a gentle overtone to cause a beautiful ripple in the liquid fabric spreading outwards in concentric circles for infinity.
Now in Venice on the water-taxi my ear is stinging from the hot wind and my eyes ache from the light reflecting off the ripples of countless outwards-breaths of others. This light-pain I love. My deformed irises reflect the light again in pyramid forms. The endless overture spins out, barely holding centre- the turning windmills are giants again- sometimes when I wake in the night I reach for the life or death vest under my bed:
Since over a decade now I have been in competition with Adrian Brendel to visit as many absurd places as possible and to play in them in some form. Last week I scored a 40 yard screamer in the top corner to put New Zealand ahead with a microtonal alto solo in front of the Sheikh and the crown princes of Dubai. The Cuban photographer was tilted slightly to the right, about to faint.
I got up at 4 this morning and took a ride into the desert close to the Oman border. I made sure I packed in my marmite, a slice of toast, and some black tea. Close to the border I was allowed to milk a camel, using all of my New Zealand farm experience to fill my bowl with fresh camel milk. I then added Weetabix for a truly Arabian-New Zealand breakfast before the rising sun. After being roped into some reading and translating these last few days ( last night I was reading of rape and pillage in Grozny and Afghanistan to an audience of veiled listeners), my tired senses bathed in the milky morning desert sun and again for a fleeting moment my thinking drowned in an open sea.
From a distance, over the heads of hundreds of hooded Arabian poets, I catch some fragments from the translators voice, like fragments of an unknown teaching: “The beauty of desiring a woman is greater than the woman´s beauty alone- my gaze yearns to be your view- the lake rose to tongue-level.” Breyton relates to me the wise African proverb a man with diarrhia is not afraid of the night! Yang Lian, the Chinese poet bursts into Mongolian song and I tune my sax to meet him in the middle. An old wheelchair-bound Egyptian poet bursts into tears before the sunset, the East Germans lyricists are noticeably oppressed by the unbridled opulence, overweight Australians and Russians stuck in the sand resemble beached giant lobsters soaked with grease and gucci grime, robed servants rush to keep the singing poets topped up with champagne and the obese Australians from hyperventilating, the beach is teeming with Masseurs form Bali, the cocktail I am balancing is called a lonely bastard (1st prize in the appropriately named vodka specialties)- I could lose my head from all the spinning so I wind up the magical Bali sounds to reel me back behind the Afrikaan epics being spun out in front of me on the arabian sand und alles was ich tun kann ist nur schweigen, und an die ewige Umarmung nachdenken währen ich von mücken leidenschaftlich aufgegessen wird beim sanften Oud klängen:
One of the first things I achieved in Dubai was getting profoundly tipsy with Breyten Breytenbach, one name I am not afraid to drop as I had no idea who he was when we met here at he poetry festival. We started with Amstel lights, migrated to red wine and then to cognac and whiskey, in other words I did everything by the books. I tested out my not-so-shabby Afrikaans, and I sat back in the absurd setting of the Sheik´s hotel and listened to one of South Africa´s great minds fly- it was better that any concert I can remember. His life story encapsulates everything I value and something he said stuck with me tonight: “the tongue has no teeth but it bites deeper”. On that note and because of all the poetry around me I offer Sylvia Plath in her own words before I fade- it´s a good thing when as a musician you can get your arse kicked by “mere” words- when they are strung together in the right way no music can get there, unless you take the words and transform them again through song- but be quick! The words are here now, gone tomorrow:
Before I undertake any trip I usually spend a good hour staring at my bookshelf deciding which weapons to take and how much they will weigh- as this trip will take me to Dubai to a gathering of 1000 poets I decide on Japanese Death Poems- a small, unassuming volume which I think will save me from falling into manic depression when I look out at a landscape of shopping malls and spectacular architecture with nothing to fill it. The Japanese monks, whose last breaths were frozen into these verses (some by their own frail hands and some by their students) would have also been surely puzzled by such a glistening mirage in the middle of the Arabian desert- perhaps they would have smiled even- perhaps I will too when I hang up the do not disturb sign, lock the door for a day, gaze out at the man-made islands, and am finally and blissfully alone to die with the monks, at least in my way.
O Frankfurt Airport
I know your every corner
Fly me home again
The album of the group Coloma just came out recently- “Love´s reccuring Dream” is a beautiful singer songwriter outing and I played some woodwinds for this release. Here are two of the tracks from the album:
I dreamt last night I was stuck in the middle of a Christian Rock Festival. Columbian Heavy Metallers were exchanging watered down medium tempo licks on their white guitars and I was about to lose it completely, there was no way out. I think it could have been the backlash from watching this film on the Norwegian Black metal scene of the 90´s, about the boys who took the initiative into their hands and started to burn down churches across the country. To balance that out and return to the real essence, beyond speculation on whether or not crosses should be inverted and burnt, I recommend the documentaries of the production house zed, some of which are here.
A true children´s lullaby : A friend of mine in Barcelona, Zoran Dukic (who happens to be an incredible classical guitarist with fingers of steel) is also the proud father of 6 year old daughter with the sweetest of voices. She recently sang this little song which I think is quite something:
I discovered another cultural difference between New Zealand and Europe the other day- or rather it dawned on me even though I have sensed it for a long time. Each time I take my 2yr old out I often let him run around bare feet- even on the beach or on the grass I still get funny looks from other featherless bipeds. They sometimes tell me to put something on, lest he catch a cold. I remember most of my childhood in New Zealand was spent barefoot- whether it was the classroom or the playground or home, our fleshy hobbit feet were mostly out on show. There is that pivotal moment in a Kiwi upbringing, that tribal initiation of passage when we start to play rugby with boots around the age of 15. Now I remember the first time I was in London, happily going for a barefoot jog in the park and innocently slashing my foot on a broken gin bottle (was that the end of my childhood?). It would be easy to get esoteric and talk about the grounding and earthing we miss by wearing shoes all the time but I will save it for now- my saxophone exam paper in Cologne was failed partly because I included my chapter on playing the saxophone with the feet ( which was meant in a more energetic way rather than physically!). For a euro-based saxophone class I would tone down my esoterica a little and say that if you do have floor heating, I recommend practising bare-feet as well as removing all the broken gin bottles from your lawn.
This is a piece I wrote for the Whanamomona Hotel in Taranaki- in a blistering burst of inspiration I named it “Whangamomona Hotel”. In times of evil, when below the dull roar of digital progress, nuclear energy is one of many spectres raising its ugly head again, it is consoling to return to places like Whangomomona, if only through sound. (btw, this is the map designating nuclear plants world-wide I often consult before planning any trips around) Jochen is on drums, Phil Donkin on Bass:
Last December we played a concert in the St Audeons church in Dublin with a new quartet consisting of four altos which we called christened the “Kaum Quartet”. The group evolved out of my workshop series in Greece and continued the microtonal explorations we started there. It was crisp and cold in Dublin during the rehearsals and I shot and cut my first portrait film for Plushmusic which you can see here. One of the pieces, Flock, deals with the movement of animals translated in into musical parameters- hence the swans and ducks in my film ( I couldn´t find any sheep so I went a la Chinois for the next tastiest animals).
I believe it was 30yr old Lagavulin which inspired Gareth Lubbe and I to launch into this spontaneous song of thanks at 0300 AM in the top tower of the great Stupa of Dharmakaya in Colorado. The spirit of a small Namibian village called Arandis where we had just been was singing through us. A certain little Maxim Chisholm had fallen asleep in the arms of one of the musical buddhas, surrounded by angels and demigods all entwined in making passionate love, merging their essences and hinting at the goal which can only be the end of division and realisation of infinite connectivity. When the eyelid bats, the bushy tail shudders, but when the butterfly in China flaps its wings, nothing at all happens- nothing at all- nothing is that simple:
Last year I played with some Moroccan musicians who travelled to Germany for the first time. After a few days of observing their ongoing expressions of shock mixed with great amusement I asked them what was up. Their reply was something along the lines of ” this is supposed to be the civilised world and yet they are all walking around with dirty arses, trying to clean them in vein with dead trees!” . The fact that there was no water in our bathrooms for hydration after excavation was of extreme amusement to them- especially the mix of apparent cleanliness on the outside (not to mention a vast array of extremely powerful and offensive after shaves and perfumes) with an inexcusably unhygienic situation in the more sensitive areas (not to mention the forests that must fall to fight the lost battle of rear-flossing). It seems that not only has our dear occident untold blood on our hands after centuries of unbridled war mongering, we also have dirty rears to boot. I think their amusement was justified, it is something that still puts a smile on my face when I strut through cities, and it certainly put some vigour into their Gnawa rhythms:
Whenever I embark on a longer composition like I am doing now for the opera in Venice I usually take a few books with me for inspiration and sanity. The ones I pulled out now happened to be the Drowned Book by the Father of Rumi, Artaud by Anne Thology, and The Little Prince in Armenian. These books have nothing to do with what I am writing but they keep me sane when my attempts to freeze my ideas into music are close to pushing me over the edge. Writing for such a space is often burdened with the thought that it has to be such and such; an opera house has to be filled with a particular sound, a particular instrumentation- what rubbish! I can picture the whole scenario already, with or without my music- not that that helps me much whilst writing. Composing for me requires a kind of mute cutting off of impressions, a retreat into an inner world and an exclusion of the total perception I usually like to walk around with. It is like a dumming down, a return to a small metaphysical mud hut of seclusion, and a welcome one in times like these when each time I can´t avoid looking at a newspaper stand I am cast into a fit of depression at the sight of another stained century. Beneath the din of digital progress, countries like Sweden and Poland are returning to nuclear power and dolphins are shedding salty tears causing the oceans to rise. Alas! Alaaf! A small jazz lament, my live version of the Flanger piece Peninsula, another sample from last week´s Plushmusic festival:
When I came to Germany shortly after the 30 year peace, I was immediately taken by the writings of Kafka. The utter futility of the worlds he created gave me a lot of strength to plow through day to day life in Germany. Later I also learned to appreciate more the futility contained in the language itself, sentences from which there is no escape, paragraphs twisted into endless circles, no logical or satisfying way out. I once thought this futility, or rather, this perfectly enclosed description of the futile nature of our existence, was a German thing but now I know it to be universal, it only finds some of the heights of its expression in that part of the world. Beyond the smiling carnival faces, bubbly samba and swinging arses of the Brazilian carnival there are some souls staring into the bottom of a Caiperinha and feeling deeply that Teutonic twang of realisation, that wiff of inevitability, that recognition that the game is being played for us. I have seen these souls in Samarakand, in Sydney, and in Saragossa. It is to you I dedicate this bubbly melody with the flute of futility hidden beneath:
One of the pieces I played with Jochen and Phil on Sunday night was the jazz standard “There will never be another you” backwards. Now I have reversed the audio so that after hearing the end announcement and applause, you can hear the original theme, reversed twice, and thus back in our normal hearing dimension :
In the plane on the way to Spain I randomly extracted a few seconds from each of the concerts in Cologne and strung them together. It gives a good impression of the range of eclectica we shared over the weekend. Thanks to everyone for a magical time. Check back on Plushmusic soon to hear all the results. Airbourne Eclectica:
Our festival at Loft Cologne is underway. Simon Ings is here writing about the concerts and updating the Plushmusic blog- you can catch all the action here.
Three gems for a snow-filled day in Berlin: A fantastic article musing on the curse of America and some jazz from the same condradiction-laden territory, the Herbie Nichols Trio:
and The Wichita Lineman by Glen Campbell,a song I treasure:
I played last night in Barcelona in a tiny bar in Gracia with Frank Gratkowski and Mr C. Williams. Although I havn´t played a fully imrov. gig in a while and had written this long essay about it I did have a lot of insights.-Tocks became ticks and ticks became tocks. Warming up for the gig we had some of our usual marathon listening sessions deep into the Catalan nights. One album that I havn’t heard in a while is this gem by Konitz and Guiffre:
I´m very proud to say that my humble little 30 euro melodica got to within centimeters to Hilary Hahn´s Stradivari at the DLD conference- something you can see here.
After many months of work the Nearness Live concert on Plushmusic is now finally up here. Why not support this recording and help me to keep this blog blissfully add-free!
Barcelona- the sun streams down into my hibiscus tea through the prism, setting it on fire and singeing my eyebrows. From the tiny pile of eyebrow ash, a miniature deep red pyramid, comes a distant song from the river of memory- three bone flute players and a singe-er form the Ivory coast meet with the lapping waves.
One of the best Greek Clarinet payers I have come across in recent times is Manos Achalinotopoulos who we recorded last year at Music Village on Pilion. The recording we made is now on Plushmusic which today went finally live! Here is a preview:
I try to keep poli-ticks well away from this blog but this speech by Mr Chomsky on Israel/Gaza conflict was simply too good not to point to, it´s up there for me with Pinter´s Nobel Prize speech.
Barcelona- I walked through the Citudella park at the Zoo end. There are palm trees everywhere and strange sandstone buildings,as well as a wonderful glasshouse that looks like it fell from the sky with the birds already inside. A few old men sit on park benches and gaze silently into this local void. Zebras cry from over the fence. Behind me is the huge and empty train station. It´s a small oasis and it´s filled with Gaelic song, one of the languages I love for always being so close to a deep song without trying:
Not only did I find out yesterday that the Latin word for apricot is prunus armeniaca (armenien plum) and that armenien duduks were made of bone before they started using apricot wood, I also had the joy of playing one for the first time. It was a beautiful handpicked instrument and I am still flying high. Surrounded by snow close to Berlin, there was not an animal in sight to judge the low D of my virginal duduk embechoure. If all goes to plan, the softspeakers post on June 11 will be from the Alexandropol Social Club after toasting with apricot schnapps on the grave of Gurdjieff´s Father.
I´ve always been interested in singer songwriter projects, especially when I don´t understand a single word and can move around in the space between meaning and sound without landing anywhere. Are are two tracks I played with a Greek project featuring the singer Malamas. Ergo Kostas Kavlakis i poly Kavla!
1:
2:
Here are two tracks from last months concert with Simon Nabatov in Cologne.
Carinhoso by Pixinguinha:
and Medly (Lua de São Jorge, Carta ao Tom 74, Até segunda-feira, Amanhecendo,Wish I were there):
In a dream I had recently an Irish voice inside a piano was speaking out between the wonderful tones. I was able to forget myself for a moment. Back in the waking world it sounded something like this (only like all dreamt music it functioned differently in time when I heard it first- I didn´t hear it bit by bit unfolding, but rather all at once):
The year ends as it began
not with a bang but a whisper (how I like it)
May the year ahead
bring our voices and our flutes even closer:
If only, then to follow her lead
Bay of Kotor
Musical instruments as a weapon of self defence: Forbidden the use of their samurai swords, the ronin made their shakuhachis longer and stouter for use as clubs in self-defense and took to wearing large straw baskets over their heads to achieve the anonymity essential to under-cover eavesdropping while playing along the streets of ancient kyoto. The flute that plays this could kill you too:
Vexations by Satie is a piece seldom heard on CD as a performance would last longer than a day- here is my own version coming closer to the full length, it´s been with me of late :
Here is an excellent analysis of what happens when a single player performs this work over the period of 28 hours. The information here as to the onset and duration of the “trance state” and the related effects on the performance is precious for all those interested in extreme performance.
My gift into the gaping digital void is this, one of my favourite Indian Ragas and a long held secret. Raga Lalit uses a pentatonic scale a semitone away from the root, creating some beautiful tensions. This 50 minute version by Hariprasad is a also a good study in motivic development- bon voyage! :
This is a bootleg from a live gig I played with B.Friedman and Jaki Liebezeit, I think it´s from Marseilles. Playing this music is like walking on a knife´s edge, it is easy to play too much get carried away into a “solo”. Although the clarinet leads with some melodies it should always be within the textures and just another voice of many. On top of that it has to have the same rhythmic precision as Jaki- no note should be left hanging.
“Doha” translates as a spontaneous song of enlightenment, one that buddhist monks tend to burst into having glimpsed eternity or sniffed samadhi. After our 3 day session in the Great Stupa of Dharmakaya we came across a bottle of Whis-lock in the engineer´s bag. This was the inspiration behind this improvised song of thanks with Gareth Lubbe:
It´s beautifully clear on Mallorca. At 8 o´clock I take a walk and shoot some photos in the morning light. I end in a tiny cafe where most of the patrons are still drunk (from last night or this morning, I don´t know). I sip an espresso in their midst, breath in their smoke, and write these lines in the middle of their heated Mallorcan arguments. Being a nonsmoker I now find I relish places where they can still congregate, it´s like a taste of a disappearing world.
The Whangamomona Hotel is a hidden pearl not too far away form my home in New Zealand. If you replaced the cars with horses you could easily think you were in the the mild west. It is one of my dreams to have a one week residence there someday soon. In between the Jazz the Japanese audience could sample our delicious Taranaki meat pies and take a helicopter ride to the coast to hear the local whales surface:
In my ideal world, evening performances of the local Maori thumb piano club would compliment our swing:
I was asked in an interview in Palma yesterday about my favourite melodies- a tough call indeed. The first ones that sprung to mind were the zodiac melodies by Stockhausen. Although I enjoy playing them on sax my favourite versions are still the originals for music box. What makes them so special for me is the mix of rigid composition and liberated intuition. Each sign is injected with a definite personality and for some strange reason they have an other-worldly quality, an ethereal lightness. Could they seriously be from Sirius? Beginning with Aquarius and travelling cockwise, here you are:
Two decades ago my Dad walked me into an Auckland music shop
And I saw you hanging on the wall
You were dark, elegant, I could hear your voice already
I have to admit I thought you looked stunning
Being a lucky son of south pacific capitalism my Dad bought you for me right away
Since that moment we havn´t parted
I often think of you when we arn´t in the same room
I have spent more time with you than any other biped
In return you have opened up for me the world with sound
You may have blemishes but so do I
Your middle D may be sharp but I love you all the more for it
You have never ceased to sing with me
Our voices have grown together
Happy Birthday, Cosette!
Frankfurt Hbf- another dead-end train station, I like them as you always know where the platform ends and the spectacle starts. 30 minutes to change- enough time for a 5 euro 30 Barbera d´Asti and a short meditation on the sound of high heels on concrete mixed with overlapping departure announcements. While I was sipping my red and lost in an accidental sound installation, Giacinto came to mind. The works of this man formed the portal to the foreign kingdoms of microtonality through which I passed in 1995. The portal´s name: Giacinto Scelsi. As with many other hidden gems on this site, there are several hours behind this small player:
Here is the classic interview in which not only does Duchamp comment on me main man Roussel, he also explains his 4th dimensional bride :
On his heels is rare talk by Braxton I have unearthed:
And in Baxton´s wake is this delightful track by Jimmy Giuffre, soaring high on the knife´s edge:
Crisp and Overcast in Berlin.
A long time ago I sat down with a guitar and recorded some songs. I don´t know why I did this but I did (as one does). I found the old CD and will put up a few of them before our eternity swallows them for good. I think they were done in ´96; I was already interested in slowing down forms and stretching them as much as possible. On them I sing and play guitar and hammond organ, Danny plays drums. As far as the lyrics go what can I say? Every day I am a different person. How many sunrises have you watched carefully?
Creature:
Smells good tastes fine, the birds have drowned
Gets kind of warm, feel her fall down
Creature inside, leave now your nest
Fly with the fish, take my loose flesh
Sleep:
Turn around and let me swallow your mind
Just can´t get enough skin of your kind
Like the fish you will feel good inside me
You could open up your eyes and could see
Night:
Just because I couldn´t show you
Just because I couldn´t speak
Or get my tongue around those truths, you left me broken and weak
You could save me from the blackest night
Fly:
So eat up the rest dear and take all the fish ´cos
They could fly and break free
From oceans filled with minds
Fish:
Sweet meat falling
Rain down wash me
Suck the honey
From the dead bees
After some sickness in the group last weekend I was forced to make some very last minute changes for the Cologne concert on Tuesday. Instead of presenting some of the new installation music I have been working on for next year I went on stage with Mr Nabatov and took a slow drive through the history of Brazilian music. It was quite a ride and I hope to put a piece or two up soon.
For now, here is a small sample from last week´s work in Ireland. Flock is a piece inspired by the movement of animals :
I´ll follow that with an eagle song by the Hopi Indians in Arizona from early last century:
There are a few albums in my life that I have listened to more than any others. One of them is Konitz meets Mulligan which I went deeply into whilst studying in Cologne and living in the lonely little student house in Klettenberg. Seldom have I gone so far into the music of others and I thank Lee for that. It´s too marvellous for words:
In county Wicklow in Ireland we have locked ourselves in a little cottage to prepare for our concert at the end of the week in Dublin. Out here we can blow microtones and multiphonics all day and night without disturbing a soul- I think the sheep even like it. It is bitterly cold and the closest town is a long drive- the perfect place to file on the music of Hildegard von Bingen.
I´m sleepwalking through misty Dublin this morning. Overtones in the human voice are not always restricted to the drone-based singing from central Asia. This voice from Japan uses them in a very different way, they slowly emerge from the main vocal line and take on a life of their own. This particular piece belongs to my category musica somnia- works that put me to sleep very quickly and gently, I cherish these works dearly and because I have listened to them so many times in headphones whilst sleeping I feel I know them intimately. Spring Banquet by Kinshi Tsuruta:
For some time I have been interested in slowing down our music as much as possible. Here are three pieces I made for Piano Trio, the idea is that they are eternally ending. On the second piece John Schroeder (for the German speakers out there, check out his beautiful quote on his page!) plays guitar :
I caught myself writing yesterday about economics. I should perhaps clarify some of this, here you go:
When we try to catch the past with the present or the present with the past, voices like this over sounds like these can help searchers like us in a world like ours. “The big bang is now, this is when the world begins” :
Shifting back a little further, “Rhythm is a FORM cut into TIME” and “Amercia is a lunatic Asylum” are not the only pearls that came from Ezra Pound´s mouth. Already in the 40´s he summed up the roots of the current economic crisis, citing the federal reserve´s capacity for creating money and forcing up national debt as a root for a myriad of other problems, including the necessity of war for the economy. He advocated government issued currency making income tax unnecessary and removing national debt. Oh, and he also wrote some great poetry, this is his voice meeting a shakuhachi flute on my server :
Long after Rameau dreamt this Sarabande backwards in the middle of a Franch moor and etched it onto his muddy shoe soles, Joyce scribbled some questions down onto the back of a questionaire (questions upon questions) in the language school in Trieste. A century later I buy a pair of shoes under the place he once wrote (the old Berlioz school in Trieste is now a shoe shop)- I call them James’s Souls. Shortly after I put them on and test out their memory, joining Gareth Lubbe in reading from Ulysses :
Soller, Mallorca
took liquid João
put in ´swonderful and shook
shot it into the sky
waited for the disintegration
collected the falling dust
added andalusian red clay
baked it into a disc with grooves under the catalan sun
and made my first brazil remix :
Rome airport- another delayed flight, the bane of moving musician but perhaps a chance to down 4 espressi, smile unavoidably at the Gucci ads, and write about an old friend. One of the faces on the canto section is a certain Gurdjieff. If you don´t know him or his works I recommend ” In Search of the Miraculous” as an introduction. A good portion of the esoteric knowledge he shared was derived from music such as the laws of the Octave. Dance was also regarded by him an important expression of the sacred within us, here are some of his movement transmissions as filmed by Peter Brook. He also collected melodies and with the help of his student Thomas de Hartmann notated and harmonised these between 1925 and 1927. Here are some of these melodies arranged for cello and piano. It may seem quaint to have these arabian scales squeezed through our western temperament and digital mastering but the melodies ares strong enough to survive the rough journey :