LA Weekly,
May 17-23, 2002
Live in L.A.
Drones and Dreams
Killing time with microtonal music
by Tony Mostrom
WORLD OUT
OF TUNE FESTIVAL
at Highland Grounds, May 4 |
(Illustration by Tony Mostrom)
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Most of the lineup here promised sure-fire microtonal goodness,
including two of L.A.'s best exponents of the kind of Eastern-tinged
drones and repetitive, trickling mallet-and-string minimalism one
associates with microtonal composers like Lou Harrison, Harry Partch
and Terry Riley. Then there was the wild card: the ominously unknown
Microtonal Rock & Roll Act . . .
Arriving just before showtime, I find the place pleasingly noisy and
packed; loud espresso noises hiss from behind the counter, while some
cornball Pretenders-ish pop plays over the PA. First on the bill is the
acoustic drone trio Voice of the Bowed Guitar, and I see San Franciscan
Doug Williford (thereof) sitting cross-legged amid piles of gear, his
violin bow in hand; attentive. Three shiny acoustic guitars lay on the
stage.
Joseph Hammer walks in and crouches down, and once Rod Poole announces
the "band" above the din of people talking, all is quiet.
Then it commences.
The drone: a huge, dark, buzzing-edged chord rises up from the three
slowly bowed instruments, lush and tense, violin bows crawling back and
forth without a break, scree-ing high overtones tinny in our ears,
above the one dark note. It's a loud, densely layered forest of
harmonies; buzzes and high squeals hover above, then get lost again in
the resulting distilled chord that plows consistently on.
Some people sit with eyes closed, letting the gigantic, overlapping
sighs envelop their faces and the room: ssshhhhiiiisshh . . . It's
menacing and satisfying. (Later:) What time is it? Who knows? But
suddenly the sawing becomes insistently louder (and I cup my ears, and
it becomes even sharper and more powerful). Standing up to sketch the
crouched-over trio, I see they're sawing the guitars faster now, but
who would've known? Then, one by one, it ends. Audience pleased,
ravished.
Following some
overwrought and out-of-place '70s rock by Swallow (of New York) that
goes too long and empties the place, the 10 or 12 of us who stay
are rewarded with the incredibly beautiful, dreamy, wind-chiming,
abstract, bell-like flutters and swirling patterns of a gorgeous Kraig
Grady piece for two vibraphones. Bong . . . It 's the only piece that
gives me hallucinations: bursting magenta flowers, dreams inside a
Japanese children's book. It feels like water.
Last up: David Beardsley
(of New York) plays a short piece of humming, layered tones on his
densely fretted electric guitar, bravely competing with the cashieress,
who, oblivious, loudly closes down the register. Pissed at her, but we
like Beardsley.
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