The Gulf Coast Dispatch
Make-Do Arts

There’s an old Native American stereotype of a loinclothed brave coaxing fire from a stick by fiercely rolling the stick between his palms, creating a mighty friction as the sharpened tip bores into a bone-dry wooden slat at his knees. The smoke rises up through the tender, the brave gently blows on it, and – presto – fire!

Now that is make-do art. Creating something (like fire) from what happens to be strewn about (like a stick). It’s not as easy as it sounds; you break out in a sweat and blisters rise on the pads of your hands. The neighbors scoff and spirit their children indoors. The police may be called, especially if the fire gets out of hand.

The process seems better suited to sound recording than to writing (poetry, notwithstanding.) While numerous examples of the former exist (see Digging Up Bones, below), only the cut-ups of W.S. Burroughs come to mind as a widely known example of the latter. So-called “found art” is another example, but the championing of any "painterly" thing may be even more susceptible to trend, celebrity, and backstory than sound and prose combined.

Over the next few months I plan to fiddle around with make-do sounds.

Here’s what happened Monday night:

Preconception: none

Instruments: mop bucket w/ pocketknife, straw broom, Bic lighter in empty pint glass, plastic colander w/ metal teaspoon, voice

Tracks so far: 6

Time: about 6 minutes

Enough sound has been recorded, so the recording itself may now dictate the direction. No electric instruments. No traditional instruments. No manipulation beyond basic mix levels and pans.

We’ll see what happens.

JH

The Musical Concern
Timber Timbre
Timber Timbre
(June 30, 2009 – Arts & Crafts)

What happens when we are told nothing, or almost nothing?

What if I tell you nothing about the artist; nothing about his hair, wardrobe, hometown, recording environment, record label, influences, intentions, etc…

What if I tell you nothing because I know nothing? Does that pique your interest or turn you off? After all, reviewers are read – or not – based on the quality of the information they provide. Context is established and opinion proffered.

Too often, though, that opinion is formed and subsequently broadcast and re-broadcast with inconsequential ornamentation, with facts impertinent to the concern.

When Timber Timbre came lumbering out of my speakers this morning, my first reaction was to dive for the keyboard and paddle into the swimming hole of “research.” Yet, as the second song (“Lay Down In The Tall Grass,”) rolled into its second minute, I simply stopped.

What if I didn’t know the history or the aspirations of Timber Timbre? What if I didn’t know “the brains” behind the music, or the official list of instruments and players? What if there were no faces behind the voices, no company line to tell me why Timber Timbre is hip or innovative?

What if I ditched all that and simply listened?

Timber Timbre is predicated on muted rockabilly and 50s pop progressions. The understated handling of such well-worn musical themes makes for a collection that scarcely resembles its underpinnings. Too often, even in their heyday, these song structures were used to wallop the listener over the head and stir up (again, too often) makeshift emotions.

Timber Timbre has avoided such a boring recapitulation by holding back. We never hear Chuck Berry guitar or Phil Spector production here. In fact, the approach is so completely detached from the tradition as to cast the genre anew. And this is no simple matter of squelching the tempo.

It’s more a matter of being quiet; and, in this case, being quiet has nothing to do with being at ease. Angelo Badalamenti is in the forest, darting from tree to tree. A sideshow organ plinks and swirls through “Lay Down In The Tall Grass.” A dug up and decomposing narrator menaces his soulmate. After a “late basement séance” he croons, “I’ll be dreamin’ every night of you/I’ll be shakin’ at the sight of you.” The spirit of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins is putting a gentler if not kinder spell on you.

In “Magic Arrow” a twangy guitar riff and quick driving bass propell a carefree vocal deceptively along its trajectory, until it strikes: “I was fine ‘til I saw the pale horse ride and open up its gate across the ocean floor/You were fine’ til you saw the white rider take and take some more.”

With less attention, under slightly less care, this collection of eight could have veered embarrissingly off course. (Iron Maiden instead of Edgar Allen Poe.) But an uncanny appreciation for 1950-something has somehow unearthed music that is refreshingly new.

I don’t know anything more about this recdord or the people who made it, and I have no intention of finding out (at least for a while.) Right now, it’s enough that these eight songs are among the most compelling of 2009.

Timber Timbre, one more time…while it’s light out.

Timber Timbre Edgar Allen Poe Screamin’ Jay Hawkins

JH

Digging Up Bones
Steve Reich
It’s Gonna Rain (Part II)
(1965 – Nonesuch Records)

In a recent discussion about Steve Reich on NPR, it was said that the aim of this Pulitzer Prize winning minimalist is not to hypnotize, but to sensitize. (I’m paraphrasing.) The idea is for the audience to actively listen: focus on phrase repetition and the subtle changes that sneak up, consume, and recreate the soundscape. Then repeat.

In It’s Gonna Rain (Part II) Reich is literally just beginning to explore this philosophy. While repetition, change, and rebirth are in ample supply, we don’t have to wait for things to get going. Immediately, the wrath of God rains down from the mouth of a Christ-possessed, hysteric. (This voice, street noise, and tape rumble are the only instruments used in the recording.) Amid this Pentecostal outburst, Noah closes the gate on his ark, the flood begins, and the unbelievers pound at the gate until their knuckles bleed.

And that’s just the first 40 seconds.

Reich, around that 40-second mark, begins an arresting cut-and-splice sequence that turns the preacher’s words (Glory to God-God/Had been sealed/Couldn’t open the door/Lord-Lord) into a compositional anchor. Rhythm and phrase emerge, as this cut-up loops. But soon enough the tape machines—all two of them—fall out of sync and conjure up reverb, echo, and a choir from hell. Eventually, nothing recognizable remains of the street preacher. A vengeful God has cleansed the Earth, this time with fire, and all fades into oblivion.

Most fascinating, if not most insightful, is that today DJs, producers, and musicians pay large sums of money for boxes with buttons that do this very thing.

Steve Reich It’s Gonna Rain NPR Discussion

JH