The Sound of Music
It feels like a time for cutting back. What is essential? Certainly, music does not come first on the list.
Recently I got away, took a trip to Vermont. I was in my friends bathroom, under her showerhead. I opened my mouth and swallowed the water. The plumbing in her house was fucked: the drains backed up and the well water infused with the scent of sulfur. Nasty, but there it was, my favorite type of feeling -- pure, full-on, enveloping sensation. I brought no music but I didnt notice.
There are many cliches about being in nature, but they are generally true. Its easier to pay attention to peoples words. In the sky there are more stars.
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Let me quote Robert Creeley quoting the poet Ezra Pounds advice about what one should look for in poetry:
Listen to the sound that it makes. He felt as I do that poetry atrophies when it gets too far from music. To me the two arts often seemed one.
Taxonomically, they could be judged a single thing: the manipulation of sound -- one on paper, one as digits or waves.
Generally I stay away from poets. Im a realist. Theres not much room for their kind in this world anymore. Weve been trained by our television sets to flip, flip, flip. We have short attention spans. Im the first to admit I have a lazy mind, or at least an itinerant one. Its easier to bathe it in air and food and pop songs than linear narratives or well-tailored stanzas that I cant convince my ears or eyes to follow.
As far as university-sponsored poets are concerned, though, Creeley is a good un. A longtime professor at SUNY Buffalo, he was also a Beat who first taught at Black Mountain College in the 1950s. (An experiment in education, the school encouraged collaboration among alumni and teachers such as Charles Olson, John Cage, Robert Rauschenberg, Merce Cunningham and Buckminster Fuller.) Ostensibly the first in an audio documentary series called Jagjaguwar Correspondent, Creeleys record succeeds because it provides a sense in its sound of how he alone perceives. Half-blind -- he lost one eye in a freak accident at the age of 4, now its made of glass -- he realizes that its such individual handicaps that provide us our distinct ways of seeing, our singular strengths. I know the world I see is not the normal one, no matter what the object of sight may be, he told interviewer Daniel Kane this past January. I have no depth perception nor can I see three-dimensional images. All my sight thus is subjective, and whatever the objective image might otherwise be is so altered. Perception is his true art.
Creeley views the world with a Zen melancholy: I think and therefore I am self-conscious. Adumbrate nature. Walk a given path.You are as much its fact as any other. My odor?My name?My flesh?My shame? What you do is how you get along.What you did is all it ever means. My favorite example comes in one of the records longest poems, and its best, En Famille:
Is wisdom just an empty word?
Is age a time one might finally well
Must humanness be its own reward?
Is happiness this?
Aurally, Creeley also hews to the essential. His speaking voice offers a neutral kind of comfort. Short lines. One- and two-syllable words. Measured by page flips. Swallows. His 75-year-old voice is recorded with little reverb; its so dry it could pull water from the air, then snap the twigs it leaves behind. Even for the lazy listener, there is music in these letters.
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And what should we look to when the poets are gone? Music. In the coming days, it is musicians who will be best able to engage contemporary subject matter, better at least than the fragile souls drawn to poesy.
Active since 1994, Brian McBride and Adam Wiltzie are Stars of the Lid. When youre trying to pay homage to the sounds of your refrigerator, theres no need for vocals, McBride said at www.scaruffi.com. Most of the time, music expresses feelings or emotions we cant express with words. Music is affective, its more than just an opinion you have. Opting out of words is part of that strategy. Making music is a process of giving back. Trying to pay homage to the beauty of sound that surrounds us.
The duos specialty is heavily processed guitars that sound like nighttime crickets playing violins instead of their legs, or church organs torn apart like pulled saltwater taffy, or foghorns warning of the edge of the world, or the Doppler effect in a black hole where time and space have stopped. The Tired Sounds of . . . is a triple LP or double CD of such drones, six suites about trying to be closer to God or, more accurately, smoking dope and then trying to be God. The sound is structured, yes, but its hard to make out the exact shape as its endlessly receding, always rising up, blurring into focus. Strings, organ and tubular bells blend in with the guitar to lend the sound more heft; shuffling dishes, piano, whimpering dogs and more worldly sounds add depth.
Wiltzies explanation of their music at croutonmusic.com is best: I really dont think of it any other way other than it fills a great void in my life, and makes me happy . . . All I can really hope for my listeners is that I held up my end of the bargain by supplying them some good quality pass-out material.
Creeley again: Games are always most interesting when the materials they require are simple -- cats cradle, hopscotch -- and the patterns an endlessly informing repetition. The essential.
Youd think these records were on opposite ends of the sonic register. One all words; one all music. But its not true. They are the same.
STARS OF THE LID | The Tired Sounds of . . . | (Kranky)
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