In the last 10 days I have visited and played in Auckland, Sydney, Manila, Kuala Lumpur, Frankfurt, Cologne, Budapest, Belgrade, Edinburgh, and now Glasgow. I am carrying with me an alto flute, a Japanese Sho, a Clarinet and a Bass Clarinet, an Alto and Sopranino Saxophone, and 120 GB of old movies- 33 kgs in total. I have drunk 32 espressi since leaving Auckland.The royal Jelly Honey in my suitcase leaked leaving my shoes and socks drenched in sweet liquid. Tomorrow I play in Glasgow here with my Scottish Highland Pipes attached to a sophisticated computer program and amplified to frighten the bravest of Scots, I doubt they will remain unscarred. Perhaps the scent of honey from my socks will console them. It will be at least twice as loud as Lou Read´s “Metal Machine Music” I played in Budapest in the weekend. I can´t wait. AMAZING DAZE with Marcus Schmickler:
Aleister Crowley´s response :
and a Mozambique Nightjar´s response in sandy scrub on the banks of the Zambezi:
My dear friend Jochen has completed his solo CD “Ride the Rueckert” and it is up here on CD Baby. To accompany the CD he has put together a book of his tour writings which has been selling like hot cakes on our tour of Asia. In it are stories from the road and over one hundred prints of Jochen in various hotel rooms which you can also preview on his flickr page here. You can order the book by getting in touch with him directly jochensucks@earthlink.net. I was privileged to write a forward for this work, some of which I give you here, interspersed with some tracks form the CD.
“The writings and photos of Jochen Rueckert are short stills of a life in music constantly in motion. They remind us of the comic tragedy of our time and strip away the romanticism associated with the touring musician. Whilst taking off my shoes for another security check or answering another endless hotel questionnaire I have often meditated on the absurdity of my situation as a traveling musician and wondered how I could relay this ongoing nightmare. The wait is over. Now Rueckert strikes back with this series of anecdotes and views into his traveling life that set the record straight. Too often we let stupidity and ignorance go by unpunished, here is a man who has just about had enough…
The buoyant, chatty Australian on the plane with sunglasses, the stewardess called Jennifer, the cocky promoters and over-sexed band members all spring to life as characters because they are so real. No one in these scenes escapes the magnifying glass of Rueckert´s all-perceiving eye and ruthless wit…
We are constantly reminded of the Maxim “the more you know, the more you suffer” and almost wish on our protaganist the “xanax-induced half-sleep” he speaks of to relieve him of the pain of communicating with the half-dead in the world he describes. Our sympathy goes out to him however, as he constantly tries to diffuse situations with his soft manners, come to the aid of his band members, and sometimes even accepts blame himself : “you return to your room to find it might have been your own mistake, not having slid the card through the reader at the optimal speed.”…
The bitter sweet taste of reality is never far away and the moments of relief in Rueckert´s world are short lived, just as the moment of orgasm passes one by before we know it, leaving us lonely and vulnerable…
´The exhilaration of arriving in the southern hemisphere in mid summer is tainted by the thought of the reverse effect you will eventually experience on your way home, arriving in NYC in the middle of winter´”
“Love Love Love” is another track by Horwitz that keeps me going in Kuala Lumpur between the fast-talking Malay Dentist and the massage place in China town tasked with repairing my broken shoulder :
This Ligeti etude plays when I wake at 4 each morning, still not quite adjusted to the local time:
And this is a little pop song wrote when I was on the borderline. It goes like this : “And when I´m water and I flow from your hands, you breathe us in and take us high up above, you never lied, feeling fine, so fine” :
Singapore is hot, sticky, and clear. After a breakfast of chinese dumplings I glide along the flawlessly clean streets (not a cigarette butt in sight) into a nearby Starbucks. Would Billy Holiday have minded her voice being the soundtrack of unbridled caffeine-induced imperialism? I try not to think about it too much and order a watered-down espresso. In my headphones (sorry, Billy) I have the sounds of Rameau. Allemande :
Sterile is the word that comes to mind when I look out into this urban wasteland where the malls frame the passage of rubber and oil burners from nowhere to nowhere. Every corner has a mall, and heading south, we begin to see the oakley wrap-arounds and rugby shirts of my dear homeland. There are no Kafkas, no Crowleys or Gurdjieffs here to meet me, only buyers and sellers.
The caffeine is now pulsing through my veins and my mood improves. Last week I wrote my first record review for a Malaysian rag. It is a little on the short side, maybe I will soon move into the genre of Haiku reviews. the original is as follows :
Rameau - Tzimon Barto “A Basket of Wild Strawberries” (2006, Ondine) Born in 1683, Jean-Phillipe Rameau was a prolific French composer well known for his single pair of shoes. Tzimon Barto is a contemporary body builder, pianist, and poet. The Album is called “A Basket of Wild Strawberries” . Enough said?
Perhaps the Haiku version could be something like this (sorry, I was on a roll and spurted out two haiku´s when really the rules allow only for one):
Rameau, Barto: a
sound strawberry collision
of two fine madmen
Now resonating
across the dead centuries
soaking us in red
What is it with the German countryside that makes me feel like Josef K. in “The Castle”? Walking the empty streets of a small village close to Frankfurt I can feel the eyes looking out through the shutters at this stranger in their midst. The Autumn is now clearly heading towards Winter and everything cries out for the soft relief of snow.
I pass my day in a huge white atelier preparing for the concert in Asia tomorrow. From this quiet German village I will be hurled into a surreal digital shopping mall called Singapore where the fertility is low and the haircuts are standardized, playing Jazz to unsuspecting hush-a-rich-ians. What a sublime absurdity!
Back in the village, usually I can see one or two lights on up at the Castle at night when I come back from my practice. Of course its best not to look lest they return your gaze and begin to ask questions. Later in my small room I watch a film about the Composer Gesualdo, wondering what all the fuss is about. Having suffered through three of his madrigals I turn back to John Kirby who keeps me company in the early morning hours before the nightmare ordeal of another string of airports begins.
Back in Cologne and the Autumn colors are out in full splendor. The word “Laub” refers to fallen leaves. It is one of my favorite German words, and one of the few I know where the sound of the word is so close to that which it describes.
I like to walk in Ebertplatz where there is a small lake surrounded by “Laub”. I circumnavigate the water on my left, the leaves underfoot. Then I sit close to the lake, listening to nothing in particular, thinking about my ride last night on my favorite stretch of Autobahn.
The highway A555 from Cologne to Bonn was one of the first built in Germany, opened as a four lane wonder by Conrad Adenauer in the early 30´s. It is a bizarre stretch of concrete and at night one passes a beautifully illuminated industrial landscape. A true nonplace of the finest order. I like to drive past at high speeds (so wonderfully smooth the German tarmac!) on a bike with this in my headphones:
Above 200 km/h, and with a Sarabande at under 52 beats a minute, time can be slowed down, even stopped for a moment.
Lisbon is bathed in light and I move quickly into the old city. Taking a taxi to the cafe where I was supposed to meet with Pessoa (or his statue at least) is the wrong move. You should always walk to important places or people, no matter how long it is. I realized this when it was too late. Being dropped right in front of Pesso´s cafe meant I was to see the statue and not the man, to see a swarm of tourists instead of an empty cafe with only myself, Ferdinand, and a team of three Baristas ready to keep our coffee intakes high throughout the day. You get no second chances with these things.
My fault. Only thing to do is to find the empty streets high in the Barrio Alto. This is just what I do and this is where I write from now. An empty street with the famed tiled walls now covered with posters and graffiti. A Sylvian poster for tonight´s show- another one cancelled. This means a full day in Lisbon to reflect. I remember the last time I was in Portugal and the Fado I recorded in a hazy state of semi-awareness :
I watch the light change slowly and meditate on what might have been, had I met Pessoa. I imagine it would have been nothing special as he wasn´t really a music fan, you feel that in his words. I would have asked him to speak in Portuguese, read some of his fragments and recorded them with the cafe sounds in the background. What a radical idea! Pessoa speaks in his favourite cafe. Listen once or twice, then buy your ticket back to Belgrade where the Toccata and Fugue is still playing in a loop at the Nikola Tesla airport.
I couldn´t get any further from my home than Portugal so what can I do but sit now in the sun, order a Port, meditate on building an ark to sail to New Plymouth, and play another last Fado :
There is a track that is with me a lot these days. One of those pieces that form a kind of backdrop to everything you experience for a while, like a sonic screensaver. Keith, David´s bassist plays on this record and gave me it last week. Here it is, a beautiful gem I found by Wayne Horwitz called “Ben´s music” :
There is no BACH to greet you in Moscow, only long cues, pallid complexions, and questionable cuisine. I was never one for congested boulevards and turban shaped rooftops.The only comfort for me is the Cyrillic.
Everything was ready for the concert in Moscow when, sadly, David was overcome by fatigue and the event had to be cancelled. I felt sorry for the fans who had looked forward so eagerly for this event so I went to the front of the theater and offered one of them my clarinet reed from the last gig which David had touched, he gladly took it and in return gave me the telephone number of Gurdjieff, who was back in town assembling a new group of seekers. Although I only had this evening I intended to make the most of my time here.
My experiences in Moscow have been always a little on the edge. Last time I was here I was almost arrested for playing bagpipes in a kilt on the red square, apparently on the wrong day. Our root70 concerts in Siberia were often marred by the audience´s shock at seeing jazz musicians in drag outfits.What a way to go that would have been! Having my throat slit in Omsk under suspicion of being a gay jazz saxophonist whilst touring under the protection of the German government.
Like the landscapes of Siberia there seems to be no limit to anything in this country. There are only extremes. I am speaking of logic, of life, and of all human liaisons. Only when it comes to Mr es.c.h and Tchaikowski I wish they could have better mastered the art of silence. Where are the rests? They hardly even glanced at the face of silence, let alone began to flirt with her.
I have a speech of Krishnamurti on my macbook and I thought we could watch it together over a few vodkas. Gurdjieff (whose cell number consisted only of sixes and sevens) liked the idea when he joined me in a seedy little dive on Mikailovska Street around eight. He doesn´t seem to have aged a bit, his shaved head glistened in the bright hospital-like light. We only managed to get halfway through, up to the point where Krishnamurtil describes the true nature of our defragmentation as human beings. Gurdjieff knows it all anyway and suggests we drink more and turn up the music. Being still a little fragmented myself, I agree, and hand the barman a CD of Casals. This never fails.
The C minor Suite in a seedy Russian dive :
To the sounds of dear Pablo he gives me his take on Silence. He speaks of the sounds of Moscow now compared to those of early last century.The Electric hum of the wires we no longer hear. A Bass drone that underpins our every action, a series of man-produced overtones underneath our lives that make our brief encounters with silence all the more unnerving. The drone of the boulavard outside produces a deep e that only I hear. I show him how this forms a major third under the whole movement of this suite, transforming the piece into something surreal, if you have the ears to hear it.
We get the pale looking waiter to keep the track on repeat. About 40 minutes later, when he finally could hear the Russian street drone under the Cello, he began to cry and painted canaries escaped from his jacket and filled the bar, almost drowning out the track.When I looked down at the grapes on the table they all contained miniature cellos. I bit into one and tasted the wood soaked in future wine. Whilst crying, he slapped me on the back so hard I was transported to Lisbon immediately.
Arriving at Belgrade airport from London I first hear smooth Jazz played on Baritone Sax (somewhat like tennis with cricket bats or bonsai with a sickle) and then, as I stepped up to the customs line, Bach´s Toccata and Fugue for Organ is played out loud to welcome us in. The full version in all it´s majesty accompanies me through the passport line and through to the baggage claim. People seem to walk slower. The music frames us in a scene of baroque tragedy. Our destinations melt away with the sound of the church organ. BACH- Breathe And Chase Harmony. Their sound system is impressive- the organ dominates the whole airport. What fine taste! What relief! All is not lost!
Nikola Tesla is there to pick me up. He is wearing a striped Jacket with tiger colors, just like my old school one, only semi-illuminated from a device under the collar.I couldn´t have asked for a better guide and he wastes no time in getting us to to one of the last authentic watering holes in the area of Zema, a tiny bar where every new customer is greeted with three kisses on the cheek. Two guitarists give us high octane Serbian songs and Dire Straights , my air saxophone soars out fueled by the seven herbs in my cocktail. Nikola explains how the amplifier and beer pumps are powered by the vibrating guitar strings, forcing the players to extend their songs as long as possible. There is certainly a tingling on my left side and everything I touch gives me a static shock. Also, when I swallow the herbs I notice the a string on the guitar glow red. My left hand becomes covered in electric soft dew. I hear this song , and the words I imagine hearing speak of a love on one´s left and a joker on the right.
I can´t understand the name of the bar in cyrillic so I name it “Repenthouse” for future reference the name came to me through a tiny bolt of lightning emanating from an old photo on the wall. Leaving the Repenthouse. I travel through the endless socialist blocks of New Belgrade, letting the static out through my fingertips.
After the Sylvian concert in a beautiful old communist edifice hear the usual “the concert was great but we couldn´t hear your Saxophone at all” . I don´t answer this and mumble something about the mix and 6000 kilohertz. Then I reply with “Nikola´s face should be on the one billion Dinar note, not on the 100, this is my message to Serbia!” and head straight for the repenthouse, pre ordering my double shot of 7 beauties at the door. Aida Polaku!
Before stepping into the Barbican to play music for the “Seduced” exhibition I took out my contact lenses. I often do this before large events, it means I can only see about 20 cms in front of my face and everything beyond that is blurry and dreamlike. People and shapes merge into one another. The more blurry the visuals the more exact and defined is the sound picture for me. This is why I think it is safer for me to cross the street with my eyes closed. But I digress.
Inside the Barbican hordes of Frieze Art Fair guests are crowding into the opening. Before I begin to play I notice Michael Nyman behind me- all the more reason to lace my solo with lush mircotones. When I begin to play my Saxophone the scent of rosewood comes from the bell, I wonder where that came from? Did I swallow rosewood earlier today? Was it the vial Aleister gave me yesterday? There are Tango dancers moving to the music and I walk through the gallery filling it with sound as best I can. Of course most people are too occupied with all the hermaphrodite sculptures to notice a blind redhead blowing rosewood tainted air through a copper pipe in their midst. When they stare at something, their ears usually close for lunch.
I continue to play throughout the evening until I am finally forced into improvising a Tango under the trees in the conservatory for the two dancers. The dancers know what they are doing, I myself don´t have the faintest idea about Tan-go ( Sunburn-Stop). Three glasses of 96 Barolo remove any inhibitions though. Were I a DJ with an invisible sound system I would be playing Rameau. Perhaps this, from the Suite in E :
Blind and tipsy I stumble into a Taxi to Brixton and bless the God who shrouded my vision and poured ambrosia and nectar into my ears. In the Cab I notice Chicken Fast Food on every block. The flash of my Camera scares away the Chicken eaters, whose body language in the cues is more like that of junkies. I return to Rameau, this time the Suite in D : This Rameau character is great for driving with in a London Taxi . Now the Chicken eaters too merge into a backdrop of dreams. Friday night in London. Rameau, rosewood, red wine.
Here are David´s photos of the “World is everything” Tour.
I get back to my hotel in Prague at midnight, helping Mr Sylvian to avoid all the autograph hunters on the way. Less than four hours later the alarm rings for my 0630 flight to London Stanstead. Not even half way into this tour, I already have bouts of nausea and moments where I can´t recall in which country I am. No amount of Espresso will help this kind of fatigue.
Aleister Crowley is waiting in the Costa Coffee after I come through immigration. We both take black teas to go and head the Stanstead Express. I am going to the Barbican´s “Seduced” Exhibition -Art and Sex from Antiquity to Now. Tonight I will create the music for the opening, carefully navigating my saxophones between marble statues, cocktail glasses,and jokes about my “sexyphone”. I ask him for something to get me by and he passes me a beaten up vial telling me to wash it down with rum before I start. It smells of sage amd mead. The Stanstead Express is on time- pure Magick.
And it is of the times we speak, grave ones indeed. After a short conversation about politics and art he understands that things had got worse not better. The Sun reflects clearly off his shaven head and I can make out the outline of a rook on his forhead. I lament that my chess is still not up to scratch. I tell him that I may need his help in Africa next year when I begin to slightly alter the social currents in Kenya with the music of the Embassadors. He smiles and says if I have the books and the Will that will be enough. Like the other Enchantress I know, his favourite track from the record is this one
The Korean Ginsing lollies are starting to kick in and I can even keep both my eyes open. We bid at farewell Liverpool St Station. It is sunny and clear in London, my Espresso at the station is just the right temperature, the Taxi driver says nothing and simply drives, I smell roses and cut grass whilst walking, and there are pounds jingling in my mended pocket. Magick is indeed at work today, yet still I can´t wait to get from the blackened Barbican back to the bedlam of the Balkans.
Three hours before the Sylvian sound check I call Franz K. at home and arrange to meet at the same Cafe. I leave my contact lenses at the hotel like yesterday, meaning I see no faces on the way into central Prague, only colors and shapes. Twice, I almost get hit by a Tram and wonder if this would be a less painful way to go than by being struck with falling roof tiles.
I take Franz to the sound check after another coffee. It takes a while to explain the idea of in-ear monitoring on stage. “But where is the music?”, he keeps on asking me. When he sees my silver alto flute he asks me if he could exchange it for some manuscripts as a gift for his niece. We chat happily about his niece and her flute lessons outside the theater and I play this Bach from my laptop speakers. It seems like the volume from these tiny devices is more familiar for him. I ask him if he ever writes to music. He replies that sometimes he likes to keep the radio dial in between stations so that he can hear a little of both stations and a little of the static, he says that reminds him of our condition. I want to ask “What condition?” , but realize that I knew the answer once.
Franz said he liked the words of David though he didn´t understand all of them as he only learnt business English. I had to explain him the meaning of ” pushing your consciousness deep into every atom and cell…”. I took one last photo of him and said good-bye. He mentioned that he has found a way of writing a full stop in italics. Before he disappeared down Borivojova street we listened to this last track in silence, leaning closer to the sound source to pick up the intricacy of the phrasing over the din of the passing trams.
After leaving the Cologne concert at 2am in the Nightliner we arrive in Prague early afternoon. In the Hotel Bar I enjoy three espressos with David Sylvian. Around us, young models with vacant looks are assembling for a show in the lobby tonight. Techno music plays and the coffee is strong. A wonderful capitalist-induced state of mindlessness. It is David´s first time in Prague.
I soon leave for a blind walk into nowhere. The Czechs have intent gazes and the women tend to die their hair. Whilst walking, I have this track with me, something I did with Marcus recently on bass clarinet. I walk the broad boulevards and remember how last time I was here, a tile fell from out of the sky and nearly killed me. For this reason I keep an eye on the roofs above.
I used to love Kafka just like I used to love James Joyce. I don´t know if it is possible to love his or anyone´s work for a life time however. I bought a pair of shoes from the Shoe shop that is now in the place of Joyce´s first house in Trieste to mark the end of my love affair with Ulysses. What will I buy here? A beer of course, a warm one in an oversized bottle. Thanks for the memories, Franz.
Another strong espresso close to the center of town nullifies the effects of the warm beer. There is Techno playing here too. Franz would have certainly enjoyed the strong coffee, I don´t know about the incessant beat though. Perhaps it would just give him bowel problems.
A couple sit and embrace on a park bench with beds of flowers surrounding them. Franz stops to watch them and asks me to take a photo with my wide angle lens. I oblige but comment on how hard it is to hold the camera straight after 5 espressos. He chuckles and mumbles something about the Techno beat. A tram passes and send ripples of smog through the flowers.
I invite Franz to the Sylvian concert tomorrow and let him know that in the second half I play a a solo on Snow borne Sorrow right after the line “Where is the Poetry, didn´t you promise us poetry?”. He asked me if I thought my Saxophone was supposed to be the poetry and I shrug. I tell him my Saxophone was made only 6 years after he died, hoping that is poetry enough for now. A lot can happen to the sound of copper in six years.
I write from Holland in a nondescript Hotel overlooking another architectural disaster combining all the shades of grey known to man, this particular one calls itself Eindhoven.Time for a Dutch Hotel Haiku:
The view-endless grey
counting the grey sheep
to sleep- one two three four five.
Jochen Bohnes, if you are out there, this track is for you :
On the soon to be released Pluramon album “The Monstrous Surplus” there are a couple of songs co-written by Marcus Schmickler and myself. This is a clip of one of them, live in Karlsruhe featuring Julee Cruise. I especially love Julee´s dress in this show.
I write from Venice where there are huge thunderstorms and torrents, a perfect day to join the David Sylvian “World is Everything Tour”- the tour dates are here. It is full moon in a eerily quiet Italy. Coffee time.
Here are some of the movements of Gurdjieff´s sacred dances, as filmed by Peter Brook. I have edited out several hours for you so you can cut through to the essence. Beautifully clear in Berlin.
This is a dance and music ceremony from Niger. I don´t think it needs much commentary, it is some of the best I have seen in a long time. Warm and lazy weather in Naples. May these strange rhythms lull you to sleep…
It´s never easy to speak out what our real search is and what it means. We are so weak when it comes to articulating what we are really after. Films are so much like concerts for me; there are usually a few moments that leave me spellbound, moments where everything seems to come together, and then an instant later they are gone again. I´m not saying that these last few moments from the road film with William Gibson are necessary one of these but I sure do love pedal steel guitar underneath good verse and he speaks out something that is as close to the essence of our search as words can get.
Here are the last 22 minutes of Tarkovsky´s “Nostalghia” in high quality- the touch of a master. I am cutting together some of my favourite scenes from movies, especially the ones that relate to time and rhythm in music as I understand and teach it. I will have them all up on the video section soon.
I have always been someone who relishes absurd contrasts. Travels such as four concerts back to back in Sao Paolo, Sarajevo, Stuttgart, and Sevilla have always kept me on my toes and given me a slim hope for humanity. This last one is right up on the top of the list: from the calm late summer in Lawrence, Kansas and the joy of a marching band parade I now find myself in between Pamplona and Puente la Reina on the Camino to Santiago de Compostela. My friend Damiana is one stage ahead of me and this is what I listen to as the landscape passes by and the road begins to walk me. message from within :
The energy is highly magnetized and there is a strange kind of synchronicity that makes the road to Santiago legendary for its many „big coincidences“ and „little miracles“.
I have put up Chaosphere album in full- one of the albums I have listened to the most in my life. The reason for this is that I have always had it in my headphones whilst drawing. Here is a track which fits the feeling on the road :
There are new root70 live videos up on youtube here.
This is an excerpt from Kurosawa´s film “Dreams” with some of my favourite Gagaku music and here is the second part.I always pay attention to the way the dancers use their feet in these sequences. Give them a little time to load, they are in high quality.
Sunny, clear, and dreamy in Lawrence, Kansas. Woolgathering weather.
This is root70 live in Cologne at the LOFT. The piece is “Lake” , a blues written by Nils on the Zurich Lake.
Bill McKeever is a teacher who has been a big influence on my path. I found this recent interview with him and have here in it´s entirety.Here is a man who is fully cognisant of every word he speaks, what a rarity!
Here is a taster from our Push concert in Dorset some weeks ago: A Flower is a Lovesome thing:
A couple of years ago I spent some time filming in Namibia a piece we still havn´t finished editing. During the weeks we were there I recorded a whole mix of voices to go with the Afro-greek story we were working on. Yesterday I cam across this track from the little theatre in the town of Arandis :
T is for Texas and Diesel Smoke, two of my favourites:
download
download
..and some of my own Country ramblings for good measure. Who said Kiwi´s couldn´t make stew spin a tale over the the crackling water? The great Ranch in the Sky opens up for the Dharma Cowboy to ride on in, so long as his tears don´t blind him:
First impressions: My first ever record bought with my paper run money and found at the New Plymouth Opera House Sale when I was eleven was Sun Ra´s “Black Myth- Out in Space”. I think it had a lasting impront on my relationship with human-produced sound. Here is is in the track “Out in Space”, the first one I heard:
Here is a small excerpt from a film made by Arte television about Rebecca Horn and some of my collaborations with her. The piece featured here is one of the main works from the Berlin show last year.
“Breath is the horse, mind is the rider.” Tibetan Proverb
“The beggar´s palace is the cloud´s shadow.” Hafiz
“I shall be gone and live, or stay and die.” Shakespeare
“And the benefits are real, because we have a right to these enlargements, and once the frontiers have been crossed, we can never become again the wholly miserable pedants we once were.” Emerson
“After I was gone beyond the frontier, I breathed out a cloud under whose shadow I could sleep for a thousand years.” Hayden Chisholm
It´s taken me almost a full week to land again after the concert with John Taylor and Matt Penman last Saturday in Plush, Dorset. It was one of those great concerts we actually managed to get on tape and on film, I can´t wait to hear it.
Whilst traveling by sea, I often listen to the music of Maricio Kagel. Here is the work “Exotica” in two parts :
On THE EMBASSADORS myspace page you can now here some tasters of the “Healing the Music” Album which will be out this fall on Nonplace. After months of mixing by Burnt in Cologne things are taking shape…
This is Tale of Tales, one of my favourite Russian animation films. I love the pace and the sense of longing in this work.
There is rhythm in everything- no matter if it is music or motorbike racing. This clip clearly shows the rhythm needed in high speed racing, the kind of left-right movement that can sustain such a run at speeds averaging 270 km/h and still feel relaxed. High level improvisation for me feels no different.
In my spare time I love to sit in soundproofed rooms and sing overtones- I believe this is a great way to release proteins into the body and it is also an excellent zinc supplement. This track I happened to record in Colorado with Gareth Lubbe. We did it at Wind over the Earth with our dear friend Mickey Houlihan as a warm up to the DOHA sessions in 2005. Hit it baby :
And if that is a shade too esoteric for you (doubtful I think in this case) then bear in mind that Gareth comes from South Africa and grew up with sounds like this. Perhaps it is no wonder that we now sing as we do. Hit it again baby! Boer Music:
I love it when people take the time to go into detail, usualy these days we only find it in specialised subjects. Here are some discussions about photography with me behind a fantastically clear microphone that made me smile.
Some seem to be at a loss when they stumble across works like Amazing Daze in my discography. This little text may help to get into these works. Sunny and sultry in Barcelona
The Christmas Tree Phenomena- I remembered today this interesting scene: you have been studying music for over a decade the world over, playing hundreds of concerts along the way. Then you are suddenly at home next to the Christmas Tree and your family ask you to play a song. But you don´t know any songs to play. You havn´t learnt any songs.You try to improvise something but your Saxophone fills with spit and sounds like a sick cat and relatives cannot hide their disappointment. This is why I taught myself “All of Me” a few years back and then some Cuntry and Western on the guitar. This Christmas, or this Passover, I will sing my song “Cowboys don´t Cry”
the lonely : a.w.
So in this
Immensity my thinking drowns:
And to shipwreck is sweet for me in this sea.
g.l.
A gem from the past: I just unearthed the Album I recorded with Jochen Rueckert in NYC 1997. Here are 4 tracks from it: Everything I love, a Coltrane track with Chis Potter, and Just Friends:
Everything I love:
26-2:
Just Friends:
“nur eine nacht der wonne
ein ewiges gedicht
und unser aller sonne
ist gottes angesicht” novalis- hyms to the night
Some years ago Mr Friedman asked me to play Clarinet on some Flanger tracks- these two tracks later appeared on the record “Sprituals”:
Peninsula :
Funeral March :
Sunny and unpredictable in Barcelona with some fantastic semi-visable activity in the mesosphere.
“Gravity, a mysterious carriage of the body to conceal the defects of the mind” -Laurence Sterne
The root70 concert in Hamburg´s NDR radio hall began with this piece of mine, called “Immaculate Conception”. .
These are 3 tracks I once recorded for a Greek Singer-songwriter project with Socrates Malamas and Maria Thoidou. Hellas has always held a strong sway over me and Athena has always been guiding me since I was a knee high to a grasshopper.
“None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free”—Goethe.
Two live tracks of root70 in Cologne last year. The first one was when a fight broke out in the foyer but you can hardly hear it under the Sax intro. Both are from the Loft:
Lake :
Time Flies:
As my first Solo albulm “Circe” is no longer available I have put up most of it on the Beth Disco section. It was done in Germany when I was twenty and is an experimental journey into the possibilities of micro-tonal saxophone underpinning the myth of Circe with various movements and dances. I performed it live several times in Germany and Iceland. Here is the first track : and here is the voice of a master, James Joyce reading his own work :
There is a short film of our performance at the moers festival here where you can see the hordes of photographers in front of the stage. It went well despite half of the band not having slept in over a day and not yet fully detoxed. The search continues…
“O mouths man is searching for a new idiom
On which no grammarian anywhere will have a hold….
The word is sudden - a God is trembling”
Apollinaire
Today, Red Deer Stag roar by the forest edge in Glen Affric, Scotland, recorded by C. Watson: and Opus 17 by Webern, Armer Sunder, Du :
Here is another of my “Titanic” mixes - ie, when the world is about to slip away we take a last dance and this is the music I play for you. I have interspersed NZ bird song with all kinds of vocal numbers. It was done on a cassette tape so the quality is not great. The dance will last over an hour and if you are not in the mood for that, it is also good for cooking a last supper to, or simply getting quietly tipsy whilst propping up the bar. The birds were singing when we came, and they will be singing when we pass- if you can hear them in your dreams you are on the right path: Hayden’s Titanic Mix (1′08”) I will leave you with the epitaph of Kurt Vonnegut 1922-2007 : “…if I should ever die, god forbid, let this be my epitaph:
the only proof he needed for the existence of God was music.”
Some Sylvia Plath reading her own work for a hot Thursday as I put the final touches on the Moers set we will perform on Monday at the Moers festival
And for my German friends, some Paul Celan :
Here is an interview I gave in “The Local Planet”- an Irish Journal for sustainable living, and here are five Hippopotami emerging from the river Mara at dusk :
With my feet in the salt water it is sounds like these I hear. Your toes bury their way into the sand, or rather the world caves in beneath them. People watch you smiling but on the inside you are losing your mind gently. Both nostrils are wide open- filling up with negative ions. In this state, an old muse once carried me this on the wind : air blues complete