By Mabel Suen
By Kris Wernowsky
By Daniel Hill
By Allison Babka
By Joseph Hess
By Allison Babka
By Joseph Hess
By Daniel Hill
How did we get here from there? How did we move from banging on hollow logs, plucking strings and grunting in caves to sitting in a concert hall, legs crossed, hands clasped on laps or chins resting on fingers, brows furrowed, listening to waves of static, wallowing cellos, freakazoid plucking and computer-generated pitter-patter? How to follow the rope that leads back from the structure to the dirt, from jerky nonlinear head music to rudimentary rhythm grunts? How did some music hop the elevator up from the pelvis and get off at the brain, never to return to the depths below?
With hard work, that's how. With sweat, brain-flexing and an extra helping of broccoli at dinner; overtime spent in the wee, wee hours with the quill linked to the melody meandering in the mind, or in the wood shop, channeling the first piano; with hope and synapse lapses and electricity, with absinthe and a shitload of money -- or flat broke, with a cigar box attached to a wooden pole strung with wire and some bootleg whisky. With a clown on a unicycle playing an accordion and Harpo in front of the monstrous stringed triangular thing making funny pretty music. With Pharaoh humming, "The Creator has a master plan!" With four minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence, with hallowed 4 a.m. halls filled with groggy, chanting monks; with a throaty, seductive whisper -- "Happy birthday ... Mr. President" -- into a rotary phone. With a beatbox. One huge wash of noise: History sweeps from here to there.
Zeena Parkins' history-sweep seems nearly as grand: She sprouted in Detroit with music in her head, which she translated first onto the piano. In high school, says Parkins from her home in Calgary, Alberta, "they thought it was very important to socialize the pianists, who were left alone practicing by themselves all the time. So my instrument was harp." Under the tutelage of an adventurous teacher, she learned the rudiments of the wonderfully impractical instrument. She hit the Bard College music program, and from there, in the late '70s, joined a circus, where she was, among other things, a dancing bear and an accordionist.
It was at this circus, which was touring Europe with a punk band, that she met one Chris Cutler, fresh from his stints with the legendary Brit art-rockers Henry Cow and the Art Bears. Cutler, she says, was interested in working with the harp. And although Parkins didn't own one, she stepped up and volunteered. "This is how I, all of the sudden, get connected to this whole music world," she says. In '84, she returned to the States and took up residence with a bunch of outsider jazz-skronk experimentalists, the kingpin of whom was Webster University alum John Zorn. The Knitting Factory opened around the same time, and, seemingly overnight, an oddball collective of instrumentalists merged jazz, rock, the avant-garde, classical and whatnot and created a new downtown-New York sound.
Parkins' many impressive collaborations include stints with Zorn's Cobra project (she appeared in the early-'90s Cobra performance at Wash. U.'s Steinberg Auditorium), Lee Ranaldo (Sonic Youth), Yoko Ono, Marc Ribot, the entire Knitting Factory roster, Courtney Love's Hole (she was onstage during the band's MTV Unplugged gig), Thurston Moore (Sonic Youth), turntable artists Christian Marclay and David Shea, the amazing electric jazz guitarist Sonny Sharrock and a brilliant cellist, the late Tom Cora.
And there's Björk.
Parkins creates music that draws from sounds and ideas that stretch way back; you simultaneously hear caves, churches and recital halls in her music (though seldom the streets, or the funk). During a conversation, she'll offhandedly refer to the music she makes as "such an unusual kind of music," which means: It doesn't have a good beat, and you can't (really) dance to it. A sample will give way to feedback, which runs smack-dab into a wall of percussion. It's an odd and beautiful music, created for her hand-built electric harp, a fraction of the size of the standard acoustic one. The electric harp took the place of an acoustic model because in New York City, there was a problem.
"You would rarely even hear me," she says. "I'd be playing my fingers to the bone. It's a soft instrument, and there were a lot of great things I was learning to do with it as I started to work on extended techniques." She stuck some pick-ups on the harp, but the sound was thin and tinny, so she found an instrument builder who could make an electric harp. It is, she says, "as different as an electric guitar is from an acoustic guitar. I needed something that I could call a harp but that's an electric instrument."
The result so far is ten solo albums, the meat of which is a trilogy of recordings with her group the Gangster Band: Isabelle, Mouth = Maul = Betrayer and Pan-Acousticon. Using electronic and acoustic percussion, piano, strings, metal springs, guitars and samples, Parkins and her band mine the history of sound and create what seem to be invisible soundtracks to unmade movies. Over the course of the first few minutes of Isabelle, a mournful string-and-piano ballad gives way to a sample of an alien chant, which gradually fades into a faraway ritualistic drum beat, which moves into a stutter-step piano/cello/violin breakdown, like a muffled, contained version of Bernard Herrmann's shower-scene music from Psycho. There's both divine beauty and unbearable tension.