How much does a soundtrack really affect our perception of movement? Halfway through a performance last night at the Brooklyn Academy of Music of Venezuela, a dance by Batsheva Dance Company’s House Choreographer Ohad Naharin, dancers put that question dramatically forward for contemplation.
The curtain opens on a group of dancers center stage dressed variously in black walking slowly away from the audience. A series of Gregorian chants accompany them as they eventually break apart. The chants continue, sweeping solemnity across scenes of aggressive skipping and hard movements–almost punches from various limbs–as well as some spellbinding ballroom dancing and mesmerizing pairings like when female dancers settle on the backs of male dancers and ride them, dragging their feet and conjuring images of sand dunes and camels. At one point, the dancers form a line behind two male dancers who begin rapping the lyrics to Notorious B.I.G.’s “Dead Wrong,” which are strikingly violent but especially so when instead of B.I.G’s catchy beat repeating a half-step up and down, it’s a ceremonial monophonic chorus holding down the foundation for phrases like “Jacked her then I asked her who’s the man, she said ‘B-I-G’ then I busted her in the E-Y-E.” The juxtaposition was harsh, almost shocking, each abusive phrase starkly on display.
At the midway point of the hour-and-twenty-minute performance, the chant runs higher in volume until it reaches a steady buzz, the lights drop, and when they come up again it is as if the dancers cast a time loop spell. Every movement (with small exceptions, including some new color on flag canvases that dancers snap and throw) is the same, but the soundtrack might as well be from another universe. Instead of anonymous chants from from the 9th century, it’s electronic, power noise work like Scott Sturgis’ “Coma,” heavy, angry metal like Rage Against the Machine’s “Bullet in the Head” and “Mirage,” an Arabic trap mix from Biz. This time, when dancers rap “Dead Wrong,” B.I.G.’s real beats are pulsing around the vulnerable line of dancers.
But in the jarring chasm separating power noise from Gregorian chants, there appears Olafur Arnalds’ “The Wait,” a slow exploration of string instruments in sweet harmony that, settled between these two opposing realms, will make you weep.
The difference of sound–and the radical emotion elicited by the shift–underlines how repetition of movement is never really a duplicate, but rather a recitation of thought and a profound statement about the subtle fluctuations that govern everyday life. On arriving in the second half, the connection between dancers’ movements became salient–one body was never without a vibrating thread pulling it to another–and slowly, the realization emerges that has been true all along.
If rehearsals last week were any indication, this performance of Beckett’s radio play, set to the score by Morton Feldman, will sound just the kind of earnest endeavoring that runs through all things Beckett and Feldman. I’ve been in conversation with Christina Keefe about it since June last year–the decay of Words and the role Music plays in grappling with its diminishing meaning–and it will be a delight to hear its culmination.
Calling opera and literary scholars alike to join in conversation at the 2020 MLA Convention! Deadline is March 15.
Voice: Remediated Embodiments
Deadline for submissions: Friday, 15 March 2019 to Cynthia Chase, Cornell U (firstname.lastname@example.org )
It’s been a week since John Luther Adams’ Inuksuit graced the live oak grove at Rice University on February 16. It was an ethereal performance, otherworldly in its focus on the natural beauty around us every day that we often forget to see and listen to, thanks to the incredibly talented and kind direction of Doug Perkins, the dauntless production guidance of Brandon Bell, and the visionary landscape design by Falon Mihalic, as well as 42 inspired percussionists.
You can watch a short summary of it here.
Joining Group 1 as a performer, I got a quick conch and triangle lesson from Doug in the Zaza Hotel parking lot on Friday (I remained quite a bad conch player with only myself to blame). At the early morning rehearsal on Saturday in Gladu Band Hall, I got my first taste of the fullness that is Inuksuit–it moves from shiveringly quiet to shakingly loud and back again in pyramids of rhythmic waves (a patterned score of time that I drew on my forearm in case I forgot anything while standing under the trees later).
The performance later in the day welcomed a warm community of listeners, thoughtful and joyful. My heartfelt thanks to everyone who made it happen.
In an increasingly loud and demanding everyday existence, John Luther Adams’ “Inuksuit,” a concert-length work for between 9 and 99 percussionists that premiered in 2009, offers reprieve. A composition focused around the relationship between environment and human, “Inuksuit” has taken form in many inspiring places. As part of my fellowship at Rice, I’m organizing a performance of it in Rice University’s live oak grove at 4pm on Saturday, February 16. Wander the grove as you choose; create your own listening experience.
This performance, directed by Doug Perkins and produced by Brandon Bell, will feature a landscape design by land artist Falon Mihalic. Read my interview with Rice News here and I hope to see you across the grove.
In any new orchestration of a work, the arrangement has to reveal in its reimagining a reward, an uncovered gem that gleams when it’s the pluck of a harp, not the breath of a flute, floating across the hall. On Saturday night, Mercury premiered a new orchestration of Franz Schubert’s beloved song cycle Die Schöne Müllerin (originally scored for solo voice and piano) as a small opera, and, though tenor Nicholas Phan delivered a winsome performance, the prize of its reconfiguration never quite surfaced.
Mercury’s artistic director and conductor Antoine Plante arranged the song cycle for tenor and Mercury’s chamber ensemble, which performs on period instruments and produces an unadjusted intonation and distinct timbre true to a centuries-past history. Playing period instruments is an art form unto itself, but it is a very specific form. In any arrangement of Die Schöne Müllerin, it’s hard to surpass the crisp purity of the original piano, which rings and glistens across steady eighth- and sixteenth-note patterns to turn the millstream into a character all its own. The organic tone of period instruments, while exquisite in other settings, just isn’t suited to the task.
Visually, there wasn’t much more of a story to tell, although over the course of 20 songs, Die Schöne Müllerin unravels a rich and universally relatable tale of unrequited love, jealousy, and heartbreak—something well-suited for opera. Staged and directed by Denis Plante, this story was dramatically embodied in a simple, contemporary outdoor setting: an REI camping tent stage left and a backdrop of laundry lines weighed down by sheets. Phan wore hiking books, a plain t-shirt and pants. As the songs cycled, the lighting shifted to match. During “Die liebe Farbe,” a bright Saint Patrick’s Day green lent an overdetermined hue to the repeating line, “My love is so fond of green…green, everything green, all around.”
Plante’s staging also features an actor, Asia Kreitz, in the silent role of the miller’s daughter. After short bout of fishing, Kreitz walked elegantly but aimlessly around and behind Phan. For a story about falling in and out of love, it was peculiar that the two figures on either side of the equation had no relationship until the last few songs, when Phan and Kreitz sat next to each other and made eye contact.
Singing with express passion and dynamics that flowed through meaty fortes and ebbed to exquisitely soft levels, Phan was the winning piece of this performance—and he would have been in any arrangement. In Houston alone, he has proven to be a master of both chamber music and love songs ranging from John Dowland’s Elizabethan era odes to Reynaldo Hahn’s Parisian salon ardors. He’s also no stranger to dramatic re-imaginings, such as a musical adaptation of Marcel Proust’s seven-volume reverie In Search of Lost Time (which also sports actors alongside soloists in what are, at times, odd narrative configurations). He savored every lyric and phrase that makes Die Schöne Müllerin such an audience favorite with sincerity and lavish technique. But as I listened, I never stopped wishing he were just standing by a piano.