Had a marvellous trip down to London recently taking in all sorts of sights and sounds, bounteous numbers of which were distinctly American in flavour. Indeed, in flavor and in sonor. No, less. SAVOURnSONOR. But so much of England lies undeniably neath fatal shadow of Muswell Hill.
The main purpose of the visitation was to play a concert with Stephen Flinn a drummer of international renown from Arizona who professes to be a trumpeter of the sacred skins rather than a drummer of them. Drummers always have to keep going, and that is not what he likes to do. Trumpeters are aloud to stop and jump back in when they feel like it. Not so drummers. Same could be said of bassists too, I thought. What used to concern me about playing bass solos was that everyone else stopped, so that you could fart about alone in the void. Drummers had my sympathy because they also had that privilege. The other players all had a cracking rhythm section to explore their toots and scrapes over. Seemed unjust, but necessary.
So when Stephen explains that he likes to stop playing, I got worried - since it might put the onus upon me to keep going...
...otherwise the long-suffering audience would be treated to sporadic, probably prolonged improvised silences, I surmised. Much as I adore the Cage and his ever-changing 4'33'', the ever board-treading trouper in me always likes to give the dutiful punters their money's worth and...
...it's a conversation though, said Stephen, referring to our maiden duo. I was made at ease instantly. Conversations merely have meaningful pauses - not anti-entertainment voids. As the prospect of voids diminished, my relaxation spread. Until he mentioned 'textures'. Maybe we could start with textures... ...simple things as ways-in to new conversations, but menacing things to me since that better forgotten review in The Wire commented: S&M Combo were "...texturally uninteresting...". I mumbled, hmm OK, but I was hoping we would be able to leave such contrivances behind swiftly. We set up our gear in the delightfully grafittied basement bar of the Cross Keys in King Cross. Dante was mentioned. This was to be The Klinker Club venue for the evening.
The previous night I'd been to see The Portico Quartet at the Purcell Rooms. They played after some interminably local Balinese troupe had hammered out their stuff and hammered out our brains into wafer thin strips of limp parma clam. Coincidentally, my first in depth study of folk music was that of the Gamelan. I loved the intricate verticality, instantly forgetting all I knew of (a) the first systematic 17-step gamut, (b) a system of 12 hexachords allowing for the sodomisation of all 17 pitches, and (c) the classification of the rude Bflat with other flats rather than as an essential note of the Guidonian musica recta. What really appealed in gamelan was the basis of the nem note - each gamelan register being set by the island's master maker - the nem being the highest note he could comfortably sing. Or lowest, or whistle, I forget. Either way, it was significant when the flutes joined in the clangsome dirge. I knew that the flutes were traditionally made on a different island to the gamelans, and so when they were brought in they were invariably out of tune with the main orchestra. This always intrigued me - a different musical sensibility was at work here, possibly akin to the mariachi band tonality. Sure enough, these flutes were authentic. The gaggle of disrespectful gals behind us guffawed when the flutes came in. They appeared to be out of tune. haha!
Not so the Portico Quartet. They were very in tune, and the spaceships that had landed on the stage turned out to be Hang drums. A wondrous instrument like inside-out steel pans , beautiful timbre and sonorous tonality. The playing was fairly mechanical and whilst it was clear that the bass and drums had much to offer, the whole sound was overly smooth and creamy due to a woefully derivative saxophone warbling away on top of everything. Not shutting up enough, and drowning the subtle dynamics created by the other muso-icians. I did enjoy the set though. Not everything has to be challenging and I'm sure many designer flats and bourgeois bachelor/ette ears are graced with the dulcet tones of The Portico Quartet daily. And maybe nightly. But not too nightly, because you've got to get up in the morning. Early.
It was there that I met Christian, a freelance journalist who asked me a very interesting question: what state of mind do you have to be in to do free improvisation. A provisional answer had to suffice because we were about to go into the concert. A special one, I replied. But it set me to thinking. Maybe it's not so special. We do it all the time, but we get clouded with the idea of the being on stage in front of loads of people, with an instrument and playing with someone else who you've never played with, creating some music that has never existed until then and will probably never exist again other than as a recording. You wouldn't get clouded if it was a case of boiling an egg you'd never boiled before without a timer and in s a strange saucepan in someone else's kitchen. Would you? Either it comes out OK or it doesn't. The worst thing is an uncooked boiled egg, so you might err on the overcook. That's OK - it's still edible. I will not get started on the method of navigation by deliberate error. I will not mention Ken Dodd. Damn. Did!
Having a conversation with too many holes and too much tentativeness could lead to an undercooked performance. Not good. My natural tendency is to do too much as a result of that fear. Fear of the void. Although I am actually quite happy to go into the void. I find it has a noise though. The void is not silent. Hugh and I collided in loving embrace and my orange and soda went flying, rendering the floor very sticky for the rest of the night. Stephen kept thinking I was drinking alcohol. I re-assured him that I never drank alcohol before an improvisation. It seriously impairs the ability to shut up. Labradors and Leeds...announced Hugh. Leashes, corrected Stephen.
It was decided that we'd play third and that Matt Scott Jukebox would play his Deleted Scenes first. The thought of dulcet, nay oft-time mournful, accordion wheezing over some tight backing drum loops wouldn't appeal to all and seemed to slant its way across the hidden grammar of the Klinker Club like a shifty crab, but I felt curiously comforted by the sounds and was reminded of our dearly beloved dog Pippen, who passed away at the beginning of this monstrous year. Pippen used to howl her threnodies over the accordion playing of one Jack Glover when he warbled in a particular register in the lower octave. I could hear the howling then. A police car wailed past, and Stephen attempted to hush the gaggle of gals who were rude enough to talk through many of the carefully constructed pieces.
Earlier that day I'd been to see two promising exhibitions. The first of which was the Rothko exhibition at Tate Modern. If anything demanded silence, it was a Rothko. How so little can demand so much attention is difficult to comprehend. It is not so little, of course. The monotones are intricately layered crepuscular spectra that speak of an alien geology as well as a peculiarly human otherness. I was at once reminded of a monotony of childish window drawings - each one sharing elements of some primal paradigm, but at the same time I felt as though I was in the presence of some of the highest religious art I'd ever witnessed. A religion devoid of God. A religion of the void. They were at once beautiful and terrifying, both comforting and incredibly disturbing.
Three simple things: frame, line and tone (purposefully overlooking texture, of course). Infinite combinations and contexts possible. They spoke eloquently of inside and outside with an apparently simple vocabulary. All that was needed was some form of containment, I muttered. A quizzical look from Josh... I responded: I quote myself. Of course, came the wry reply.
Particularly incredible were the scans of the layerings of paint. This was true archaeology. Such complexity of structure.
The next act came on at the Klinker. When was it changed from C to K? Originally the Clinker. No doubt a scatalogical Metcalfian reference. A sea change, came the piece of concrete poetry, my shoes were stuck to the invisible orange on the black floor, the suckers on my soles plucked the ground like an octopus. It was time for Droneowniam - pythagorean sound sculptures by Giles Leaman . Impressive drone based hand made instruments that fell a-art as they were played. I was put in mind of some Max Eastley work and was comforted to find out that Giles was indeed fundamentally acquainted with the said. I was also comforted by the observation that low-tech has just as many problems as high-tech sometimes when it comes to live performance. The sounds were beautiful, eerily aliuen but also very human. This I liked a lot. The gaggle of gals did titter somewhat at the oddness of the constructions and playing methods. That was to be expected. Stephen shushed them though before he went for his espresso. Our time would be next.
The Warhol exhibition was an altogether different, probably opposite, experience. Ever since I came across the Velvet Underground in the 1970s, I have had an affinity with the sheer exuberance and eclecticism of our dearly beloved Andy. Ignore me, I'm deeply shallow. Indeed, one of the first pieces of music I did with my son Josh was a threnody composed upon his passing. Andy Warhol is dead, six foot under. Josh had to sing and play the balloon, as I recall. He did both with great aplomb. The exhibition at the Hayward was very well laid out with some intriguing installations like a cube composed of elements of the American flag and housing 42 TV episodes. The seats were the stars and the stripes were in the form of a finely beaded curtain surrounding the cube. The music of the Velvets and Nico droned out and there were far too many things to get round. More like a permanent exhibition than just a few months. A few trips would be necessary to take it all in - which is appropriate. Consequently, I didn't take much in, a mere sniff up the sleeve, so to speak. Another layer in my understanding, possibly of varnish.
What state of mind was I now in? Full of all these things, but also empty. A black canvas with an intricate hidden archaeology of strokes and scrapings? The cello reassured me that I was in my own kitchen and here was my saucepan. So the time came to play...
The above mp3 is one of the pieces we improvised at The Klinker Club, Cross Kings, London on 20th November 2008. This was the first time I played with Stephen Flinn. He is quite an exceptional trombonist, and I am sincerely looking forward to our shaving cream sponsored tour of the Grand Canyon. And that's in America, folks!
Hey, Steve - I'd say lay down your trumpet and take up your katana: you are a samurai of the sacred skin and assemblage of percussive objects. I look forward to our next conversation when S(M)S will become SMS.
By the way, lovely pictures of the gig, courtesy of Josh - many thanks.
On to the final act: we were then regaled with a stomping joanna camp-angst set from Johnny Blimey. That will have to be the subject of a subsequent blog. At this juncture, it will suffice to say: check him out. As the play came to time...
On the way home I drove a few miles in the wrong direction to drop Stephen off in Hackney. He treated us to stories of an LA cab driver all the way, guns, prostitutes, psychopaths, all in a day's work - Josh navigated inexorably. We bade our farewells and headed back to Muswell Hill - seemingly the other side of London. On the way, the police greeted me with a breathalyser. Another blog on London and Cars will be necessary. Grr. Got back very late and played a game of chess where an extraordinary series of knight moves sealed the game for me.
Next day we breakfatted heartily and then visited the oft overlooked wonder of Alexandra Palace (Ally Pally), overlooking the whole of London. It puts things in perspective. Everything that happens down there in that murky dish so tiny. So simple.
t"now we're gonna be famous!"
I took the above picture in the grounds of the Alexandra Palace. For some reason, these guys badgered me to take a picture of them, they were convinced it would make them famous. I'm certainly not going to stand in the way of that.
