The New York Downtown arts scene – the music side of it in
particular – is something I've touched at a dozen different points without ever
grabbing hold of it. Like a leitmotif it keeps showing up on the edges of my
life, and I keep resisting the idea of making it my scene. This is usually followed by regret, years later, when I
see how rich and enduring it is and how lovingly its true exponents and fans embrace
it.
Still, not really feeling a part of the scene doesn't quite
explain why I have never been to a Glenn Branca concert until tonight, though I
was aware of his music almost from the time he set foot in New York in the late
1970's. I suppose I have told this story before, but since most of the readers
of this blog won't have heard it why not give it one more chance. When I was a
student at the Mannes Conservatory – now a college of the New School – in the
late 1970's, my brother and I formed a rock band. We quickly outgrew the Upper
West Side bedroom we had converted into a music studio and started looking for
rehearsal space – one that was all but free, since we had very little money. I
can't recall how we found it – probably an ad in the Village Voice – but we managed to locate someone who wanted to
share a basement rehearsal studio at 262 Mott St. That someone was Jules
Baptiste, who founded the band Red Decade. At that time Jules was performing
with Glenn Branca; that's how I heard of him, and his "symphony for 100
guitars". It sounded like a crazy idea, not to mention probably too loud
for my tastes. Besides, since Jules was playing landlord – and, we assumed,
having us largely subsidize his studio – we sometimes just barely got along, so
running out to see him play wasn't a top priority.
Well, there it stood, for, um... about 37 years – until tonight.
Today, the stars just aligned – thanks to my wife taking my daughter and mother-in-law
on a cruise to Halifax (the purpose of it, lest there be any confusion, was not
specifically to allow me to see Glenn Branca). Having that rare, momentary
notion of myself as a "free man" from around 2:30 p.m. today until a
few days from now, I was already more open than usual to the concept of an
evening adventure. The notice of a Branca concert this very night – at Roulette,
an easy trip on the R train from my remote Bay Ridge location – somehow slid
beneath my eye as I leafed through the NY
Times. Even more enticing, the premier of a memorial piece for David Bowie,
with whom Branca had briefly collaborated and who was an admirer of his music.
So there I was at the stroke of 8:00, complimentary earplugs
in hand, ready to experience my first Branca concert. What did it feel like?
Well, not very different from the day I sat in a different Downtown room (The
Kitchen, I think) waiting to hear my first (and last) Cecil Taylor concert.
Expectations of an immersive but not terribly easy experience. Nothing I can
take out on the street and hum as I head back to the subway. A feeling of
obligation – to myself, to St Cecilia, to some spiritual link that I can only
place by thinking of a lot of vague connections. I look around, and imagine
everyone over 50 to be someone I either know, or should know, but can't
recognize after decades of hair style and body weight changes. Patrons of the
Downtown circuit who have either had works performed here or at least smoked
dope with Phillip Glass, if not Andy Warhol. Feeling oddly at home, like I
belong here, even though everyone knows everyone else, or so I assume.
The first item on the program was a set of six pieces called
The Third Ascension, a recent work
for four guitars, bass and drums. Each piece had a slightly different impact.
The first, "German Expressionism", seemed to have more open sounds
and events than some of the others, though it also featured a bit of energetic improv,
not to say wilding, by Reg Bloor (who is Branca's wife). Next was "The
Smoke (Guitar Concerto for Arad Evans)", hardly a concerto in anything
remotely like your usual sense, and featuring smoother and more tonal sonorities
than the first. After a change in the guitar tunings, the next two pieces also
featured the trance-like continuities that make the Downtown music scene what
it is. I found both of them too loud to enjoy, even with the deeply appreciated
earplugs. (I did not wear them through the whole concert but for these two
pieces they were hardly out.)
Another tuning change preceded what turned out to be my
favorite piece of the evening, "Twisting in Space", a mutating cloud
of appealing soundscapes that reminded me a bit of something Robert Fripp and
Brian Eno might have come up with. The last piece, "Cold Thing (La Belle
Dame Sans Merci)" is, I suppose, appropriate to its subject, though once
again I found the sonorities a bit harder to take than, say, the sound of two
Boeing 767's landing on either side of you.
Finally at the end of the concert, with no special
announcement or fanfare, came The Bowie tribute, "The Light (for
David)". This I have to say was a complete success, for me at least: I
felt transported, mesmerized in the way this kind of music is supposed to
achieve, and had no inclination to reach for the earplugs in spite of the
volume. In fact I was sorry it ended, as I was about as close to feeling stoned
as I have ever been without drugs. (Okay, one bottle of Brooklyn Lager – does that
count?) Bowie, I think, would have been pleased.
As for Branca, he "conducts", after a fashion; at
least he signals changes of sonority to the performers. His music is oddly
metrical, sometimes even sporting a heavy backbeat on the drums, and with the energetic
drumming of Owen Weaver behind the ensemble there is no real need to keep a
beat. Instead, Branca sways, bends his knees and swoons, extends his arms like
St. Francis receiving the stigmata, and sometimes ushers the performers towards
a change of volume or tempo. When he speaks (with some difficulty) he offers
comments that suggest he is well aware of how challenging his music is – "We're
only just getting started!" (three pieces into the concert); "we have
another tuning change, so go get yourself a drink – you may need it".
Well, that's one down on my list of obligations. I see four upcoming
Rhys Chatham concerts in the NY area – will I manage to get to one? That would
be after, not 37 years, but let's be honest, more like 47. Rhys was my
classmate at the Third Street Music School back around 1969 or so. Our teacher,
Tom Manoff, kept close tabs on the new music scene, and took the class to visit
Morton Subotnick's studio, where he demonstrated an early Buchla synthesizer. Manoff
was the first person to encourage me to compose music. I don't recall seeing
Rhys again after a went to college and left the Third Street settlement. I
should pay him a visit.
(P.S. - Why no pictures or video clips? They were recording the concert and asked us not to take any pictures.)
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