Manafonistas

Der junge Arvin wächst in den fünfziger Jahren im heruntergekommenen Niemandsland des Mittleren Westens auf. Hier hat sich der amerikanische Traum in einen fiebrigen Albtraum verwandelt, der bevölkert wird von psychopathischen Verbrechern, korrupten Sheriffs und religiösen Fanatikern. Arvin ringt um einen Ausweg aus dieser Welt. Doch als seine Freundin vom Ortsprediger missbraucht wird und sich daraufhin erhängt, nimmt auch er das Gesetz in die eigene Hand. Zur gleichen Zeit, nur wenige Meilen entfernt, brechen die beiden Serienkiller Carl und Sandy zur Jagd auf.

Nur sekundenlang blitzt so etwas wie Hoffnung auf. Zwei Jungen auf Fahrrädern biegen um die Ecke, und als er ihr sorgenfreies Lachen hört, wünscht sich der Serienmörder, jemand anderes zu sein. Doch dafür ist es längst zu spät. Der finsteren Welt des amerikanischen Autors Donald Ray Pollock entkommt man nicht. Hier tummeln sich religiöse Fanatiker, korrupte Polizisten und lüsterne Geistliche. Bei schwarzgebranntem Schnaps und gegrilltem Eichhörnchen zeigt sich das Elend der menschlichen Existenz in gnadenloser Größe. „Das Handwerk des Teufels“ heisst dieses brilliante Erzählwerk.

Es gibt in dieser Geisterstunde (die den Namen wirklich verdient) 30 Jahre alte Musik von Oregon (habe das Album nach vielen Jahren wieder entdeckt, und dieses Opus ist mal ein Beleg dafür, dass manches mit der Zeit noch besser wird:)) – und ganz neue Stücke von Pat Metheny, beide auf ihre Art von ferner Folklore inspieriert. Mariana Sardovska und June Tabor interpretieren Lieder ihrer ukrainischen und englischen Heimat – und jede Menge elektronischer Sounds in den Produktionen von Pan American, Stephan Mathieu und Boards of Canada sorgen für ein gutes Quantum Unheimlichkeit, in der Art, wie sie uralte Tonaufzeichnungen bearbeiten, Science Fiction-Atmosphären mit Geisterstimmen bevölkern, oder, im Fall von Pan American, die Ausstrahlung einer einst modernen Architektur der USA einfangen, glasverspiegelte Flughafenareale und nächtliche New Yorker Boulevards anno 1960. In 14 Tagen dann Musik von Meredith Monk, Colin Walcott, Cristal, These New Puritans – und eine der vier Versionen von Luc Ferraris Klassiker „Presque Rien“, auf Vinyl, mit 45 Umdrehungen pro Minute. Bei so vielen „Umdrehungen“ kommt nicht mal mein Lieblingswein mit, Blue Eyed Boy 2009, ein Shiraz, The Genuine Product of Sarah & Sparky, aus Südaustralien, www.mollydookerwines.com

Evening falls. Someone’s playing a dulcimer
Northampton-style, on the porch out back.
Its voice touches and parts the air of summer,

as if  it swam to time us down a river
where we dive and leave a single track
as evening falls. Someone’s playing a dulcimer

that lets us wash our mix of dreams together.
Delicate, tacit, we engage in our act;
its voice touches and parts the air of summer.

When we disentangle you are not with her
I am not with him. Redress calls for tact.
Evening falls. Someone’s playing a dulcimer

still. A small breeze rises and the leaves stir
as uneasy as we, while the woods go black;
its voice touches and parts the air of summer

and lets darkness enter us; our strings go slack
though the player keeps up his plangent attack.
Evening falls. Someone’s playing a dulcimer;
its voice touches and parts the air of summer.

„The wind is in from Africa, last night I couldn’t sleep …“ (Joni Mitchell, Carey)

Open window, african heat. The strong and fluttering voice of a black woman down on the street sounds like from a black market. A recovering man in the mid-fifties, lying on bed in a first-floor-flat, listening to the voice below, is immediatly reminded of a song that has been one of his all time summer songs – that smells like teen spirit. When he heard it first in nine-teen-seventysix, he felt like beeing baptized, further on belonging to an exotic world, freed from white man’s cage, being an exotic nature himself: shifting and shivering.

 
„Gibraltar“

To read them, you have to click on the photo! The record leads back to 1982. i always loved the cover of Steve Tibbetts‘ NORTHERN SONG, the rainy street, the blackness, the damaged paper. It was the only Tibbetts record Manfred Eicher has ever produced, in Oslo, during a long weekend. Doing something in real time, and using no overdubs, was a unique experience for the duo of Steve (with acoustic guitar, a kalimba, some tapes only), and Marc Anderson’s percussion instruments. NORTHERN SONG is a music full of holes, silences, pulses, and breath. Though you can call it meditative, it didn’t interfere with the terrible sweetness of that era’s „new age“ garbage. I never got bored by the breathtakingly concentrated execution of a silent state of mind. Hearing this, you have no Maharishi-disciple in mind, no hippies, who desparately want to share their spiritual messages. Nevertheless, it’s pure and simple and profound, on the ambient side of life. P.S.: There’s a subtle, nearly ethereal connection between NORTHERN SONG, MUSIC FOR AIRPORTS, and Dennis Johnson’s NOVEMBER.

La Monte Young credited Dennis Johnson’s 1959 piece November with inspiring The Well Tuned Piano, but no transcription of it existed until now. The only recording was a hiss-filled 100 minute long cassette (of a piece Young said could „theoretically“ be six hours long). Kyle Gann has now constructed a score from the original cassette recording, which requires the performer (in this case pianist R Andrew Lee) to improvise against several pages of Gann’s short musical score.

November was the magnum opus of a heavily abbreviated career, but one that left a largely uncredited mark on the development of minimalist composition. Nobody knows Johnson’s whereabouts, he took himself out of radio contact years ago, and it’s not known if a transcription of the piece ever existed. He also wrote a piece titled The Second Machine, but soon after abandoned music and went into computer science.

R Andrew Lee’s performance of November is being released by Penultimate Press and Irritable Hedgehog as a 4CD box set. In my early morning show, „November“ will be presented one hour long – in September.

 
 
 
… und weiter geht es mit unglaublichen Geschichten. Erst kürzlich hatte ich die Möglichkeit den Film Searching For Sugar Man zu sehen. Selten hat mich ein Film so gepackt, ich habe alles um mich herum vergessen. Dann musste ich sie natürlich haben, die Platte, und zwar in der Vinyl-Version: Cold Fact von Rodriguez und bekam sie, wie zuvor schon die DVD auch noch geschenkt. Am 9.5. dieses Jahres berichtete manafonistas bereits von der DVD. Zur DVD gehört aber nun zwingend die Vinyl-Version der ersten Platte von Rodriguez, dem Künstler, der 1970 Cold Fact und 1971 Coming From Reality aufnahm und mit beiden Platten vollkommen durchfiel. Der Produzent der zweiten Schallplatte, Steve Rowland, erinnert sich noch gut an die Zeit der Produktion von Coming From Reality. Im Dokumentarfilm Searching For Sugar Man erzählt er, dass diese Platte die traurigsten Lieder enthalte, die man sich vorstellen könne. Rowland spielt einen Song for: „Cause“.
 
Cause I lost my job two weeks before Christmas
And I talked to Jesus at the Sewer
And the Pope said it was none of his God-damned business
While the rain drank champagne

My Estonian Archangel came and got me wasted
Cause the sweetest kiss I ever got is the one I’ve never tasted …
 
 
 

 
 
 
Dann erzählt Steve Rowland, auch nach 40 Jahren immer noch tief bewegt: „Das macht mich echt traurig, denn das war der letzte Song, den wir aufgenommen haben und der letzte Song, den Rodriguez je aufgenommen hat. Und, was das ganze noch trauriger macht: Das Album kam 1971 heraus und wir erhofften uns viel davon. Aber es passierte gar nichts. Und dann: Zwei Wochen vor Weihnachten, kündigte Sussex seinen Plattenvertrag. Und die erste Zeile des Songs war wie eine Vorahnung: `Ich verlor meinen Job zwei Wochen vor Weihnachten´. Das muss man sich vorstellen: dieser Mann verdient Anerkennung und niemand in Amerika hatte jemals von ihm gehört. Niemand. Niemand wollte ihm zuhören. Wie kann das sein?“
Allerdings geht die Geschichte noch weiter: Auf verschlungenen Wegen kommt die Platte nach Südafrika und wird dort ein Riesenerfolg. Drei Platten, so heißt es im Film, hatte man Anfang der siebziger Jahre im Plattenschrank zu haben: Abbey Road von den Beatles, Greatest Hits von Simon and Garfunkel und eben Colt Fact von Rodriguez.
Beide, Langspielplatte Cold Fact und DVD Searching for Sugar Man, gehören in den Plattenschrank!

Abserviert, Cains so lange verschollener Roman, ist, auch dank der erneut großartigen Aufmachung von Walde+Graf/Metrolit, für Krimi-Freunde wie Bibliophile gleichermaßen eine mehr als empfehlenswerte Wiederentdeckung. Ein düsteres und doch berauschendes »Noir«-Werk der alten Schule, das durch Ardais Nachwort informativ abgerundet wird.

Genau. These New Puritans zetteln eine bislang so noch nicht gehörte Musik an, die sich aus unzähligen Quellen der Klassik- und Popkultur speist, und dabei all jene Lügen straft, die Erneuerungen im weiten Feld des Art-Rock nur noch in Nuancen für möglich halten. Gerne wird für dieses an Traumszenarien erinnernde Werk Laughing Spirit und Spirit Of Eden als Inspiration angeführt. Das stimmt gewiss nicht, was den Sound betrifft, wohl aber, was die Radikalität der Mittel, und diese durchweg unwirklichen Stimmungen angeht, die alle Lieder auszeichnen. Natürlich nutzen TNP auch Strömungen der klassischen Avantgarde (und eine Prise Tubular Bells), und mit Henry Lowther wirkt ein Jazztrompeter mit, den einst auch Mark Hollis ins Studio lud. Doch damit hat es sich. Es braucht Zeit und Einfühlung, sich in diese Klangräume einzufinden, seltsam disparat wirken einzelne Elemente (ein fragmentierter Chor, ein verloren wirkendes Vibraphon, leise Murmelgesänge), doch dann geht irgendwann ein Licht auf, und der Hörer geht auf Erkundungsreise. Dabei handelt Field Of Reeds nicht von abstrakten Dingen, mit denen kühle Klangtheoretiker ihren Elfenbeinturm ausstaffieren, sondern um lauter existenzielle Angelegenheiten. Die hochgradig originäre Musiksprache verhindert jedoch, dass man auf den uralten Stoff (Liebe, Tod, Hoffnung, und all diese Habseligkeiten unseres Lebens) mit den üblichen popmusikalischen Konditionierungen oberflächlicher Anteilnahme reagiert. Hier werden neue Blickwinkel erprobt, alte Rezepturen ratzfatz abgeschafft. Der harte Schnitt. Zudem bewegt sich diese in jeder Hinsicht einmalige Musik in einem weitgehend melodiösen Raum, Dissonanzen sind nur spärlich, dann aber umso effektiver, eingestreut. Aber Vorsicht: anfängliche Befremdnis ist unvermeidlich! Unwiderstehlich geht anders, These New Puritans entziehen sich jedem geübten Zugriff.

“A drug is not bad. A drug is a chemical compound. The problem comes in when people who take drugs treat them like a license to behave like an asshole.” – Frank Zappa

Parking in Montclair, New Jersey is a pain in the ass. The roads are hilly and narrow, and there’s almost always traffic. It’s especially bad today, The Flaming Lips are in town for a sold-out show at the Wellmont Theatre, and it looks like every weirdo in the good ol’ garden state has turned out for this momentous occasion. After about fifteen minutes of scanning cross-streets and alleyways, I finally cave in and pay an exorbitant price to situate my vehicle in a tiny spot within adequate walking distance. The line outside the Wellmont is long, wrapping all the way around the venue and down the adjacent side-street. Incidentally, this places concert-goers across the street from a smoke shop. Up a way, I can overhear a group of fearless freaks debating the merits of a brief departure from the line in favor of a potential plunder for assorted paraphernalia. Another freak next to me is just staring off into space, looking beyond the tiny shop, beyond the bounds of New Jersey’s modest borders, far out to the way-end of the cosmos. He also doesn’t seem to be aware of the heaping pile of bird-excrement he has situated himself upon — but hey, who am I to say that’s not contributing to his zen?

Finally, the queue begins to inch forward. At last, I can see the dim lights of the Wellmont’s aging marquee, which reads simply, “The Flaming Lips”. As I get closer and closer to the entrance, the line begins to dissolve into a mass herd of clothed, semi-sentient cattle. A particularly boisterous member of the theatre’s staff begins to shepherd the flock along, barking at us all the while. “The sooner you get in, the sooner I go home!”, he sloganeers like an old time, New York City paper-peddler. There’s a slight surge in the crowds’ step, and I’m accidentally shoved against a glass door. My face plants right onto a flier that sort of reads like a bad haiku, “STROBE / Lights / Will Be Used / In Tonights / Performance”. I recover quickly, my excitement is now bolstered tenfold.

“Most rock journalism is people who can’t write, interviewing people who can’t talk, for people who can’t read.” – Frank Zappa

The lobby of the theatre is absolutely gorgeous, like an ancient relic from a much more elegant time. Its carpeted staircases twist and turn and come to rest along the room’s checkered marble floors. A gold-trimmed chandelier hovers over top, immediately attracting the attention of the crowd, who gaze upon it as if the band’s light-show has already started. I quickly run through an underpass filled with assorted, overpriced merchandise and make my way up the staircase. A quick glance at my ticket reveals the appropriate seat and row — nosebleeds, the usual. The showroom is slow to fill at first, but after twenty minutes or so, the place is packed wall-to-wall. A lone, scraggly aberration situates himself next to me. We exchange some brief, awkward small-talk, then quickly resume ignoring each other. A deranged fan behind me spills cold beer down my back — he doesn’t acknowledge my sour stares, I choose not to make it any more of an issue.

The crowd suddenly erupts with applause. I glance down to see what the hoopla is all about. THE BAND HAS NOT EVEN TAKEN THE STAGE YET. Just a short light-test and nothing more. A few minutes later, the stage goes dark. A tiny, nameless girl steps out in front of a projected backdrop — waves, scrambled and obscured by over-pixilation. Technical difficulties set in almost instantly, with the sound fading in, distorting, and then cutting out. Looking for a spectacle, the eldritch pack of ground-floor attendees begin to howl along to the incidental, droning feedback. The drunkard at my back begins to hee and haw and squeal like the gluttonous swine he is. It’s official, the Fearless Freak Choir has now become a surrogate warm-up act.

However, the crowd’s twisted sing-a-long is interrupted about mid-set by an unexpected blast of synthesizer noodling — the original opener is ready to give it another go. Despite her faulty equipment, the tiny sprite returns stage front and begins to rock back and forth, overlaying one lush, looped vocal at a time, which coalesce into a serene, Eno-esque wall-of-sound. Very cool, but also incredibly boring to watch. The frail beardo next to me sits up for a moment and ekes out a few words. “Sounds like something on one of those ‘Discover Ireland’ commercials”, he then slips back into his seat and balls up into a fetal position for the rest of the show.

“A hero is a goddam stupid thing to have in the first place and a general block to anything you might wanta accomplish on your own.” – Lester Bangs

The house lights slowly turn on as the opener collects her plasticine musical toys and hobbles off the stage. The Lips’ road-crew quickly swarm in, setting up what might be the most bizarre set-design I’ve ever seen. A single microphone stands atop several oblong, silver balls and space-age, tinsel-covered platforms as eerie, intestine wires connect the glitzy contraption to the ceiling. A few more light-tests yield a few more rounds of obligatory applause and then silence. The theatre’s resident hype-man comes out to greet us, spews a few buzz-words in a voice fit for a monster-truck rally, and then disappears. The room goes dark, but nobody takes the stage. After a long period of pure sensory depravation, The Flaming Lips finally march out onto the catwalk.

Coyne emerges first, clutching a mutilated baby-doll and perches himself atop his malformed, silvery lectern. A few short words of Spanish reintroduce the band to the dazed crowd, the violent buzz of a synthesizer drowns out their cheers. Like clockwork, the pungent aroma of multiple dubious substances sifts through the cracks in the air, creating a thick bed of psychedelic atmosphere. Without warning, a stabbing, repetitious synth pattern cuts through the white-noise and feedback and the drums begin to wind up — the clatter is almost deafening. The stage begins to strobe spastically — red, blue, red, blue, white, black, red, blue, red. A glowing, fluorescent harpy dances about the backdrop and then falls to her knees and begins birthing a bright sun-baby before the stage goes dark — I hardly notice the sustained, brash feedback that continues to filter through the room.

It doesn’t take too long for the Lips to barrel into another overwhelming display of visual fetishism. “Try to explain why you’ve changed / I don’t think I’d understand”, Coyne sermonizes from his pulsating, electronic pulpit. I glance about the room and see a crowd full of psychically-altered beings communally engulfed in a din of skronking synths and helpless lyricism — but for reasons unknown to me, I feel as isolated as I’ve ever been. Maybe its the steep distance between my seats and the stage? Or the various distractions that have dominated my experience thus far? Maybe I’m just not lucky enough to feel the inert, psychedelic charms of The Flaming Lips’ presence? To be honest, I still can’t quite put my finger on it, but something kept me locked inside myself, forcing me to endure an acute case of self-imposed, cerebral claustrophobia. On the other hand, that might be the perfect way to experience The Flaming Lips’ post-Terror material. Maybe the desperation and loneliness that pervades that music is somehow channeling itself into my feeble psyche, leaving me metaphysically frozen and utterly emotionless.

However, just before I gaze too deep into the preternatural void, I hear a word that completely shatters my brooding, contemplative silence and summons my attention almost instantaneously: Bowie. “I don’t think he means we can defeat the bad guy or something,” Ringmaster Coyne says of Bowie’s mid-career hit, „Heroes“, “I think he’s saying ‘look let me live my life and you live yours, I don’t need to win, we already win by living the way we do.’ We can be heroes in that way.” I’m immediately built back up and ready to reconnect with my boisterous, psych-pop idols. Just as the words leave his mouth, Coyne and the gang let loose a noise that resembles Bowie’s classic, but only in spirit and lyricism. It’s a stunningly visceral performance, but yet again, I’m left unmoved and cold and once again retreat back into my head for some extra cognitive exploration. In the distance, I can hear the final rumblings of the concert and ravenous mirth of the cheering crowd. When I come to, the theatre is nearly emptied and the hog at my back is hunched over my seat, chanting “It was spiritual, man. I saw God! I saw God!” I wonder if he got his autograph…