Keeping tabs on place
There’s an old clichÈ, attributed at various times to both Frank Zappa and Elvis Costello, which goes, ‘Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.’ Words, by definition, cannot describe what musicians do, because music is a language that transcends the verbal. If writers want to do justice to music–so the argument goes–they should just put away their word processors and listen. Fair enough. On the other hand, how cool would it be to see a really good dance about architecture?
It could totally happen. Dancing and architecture both concern themselves with the structure and form of physical space. It’s hardest, in fact, to imagine music about architecture. Buildings take up room on city blocks while music is ephemeral, outside of physical dimension. A dancer could mimic the shape of a skyscraper, but how would a horn player do this?
That’s an actual question, not a rhetorical one. How do musicians evoke a sense of place? How does a guitar player strum a chord about geography? One answer, of course, is to root one’s self in the culture and language of people located in a particular region. The best Hawaiian music communicates a sense of place by reflecting tradition and raising voice. Following is a selection of albums with artists who seek to do the same.
Ry Cooder, a guitar player, singer and music fan who has recorded with Taj Mahal, Gabby Pahinui, and the Buena Vista Social Club, attempts to evoke the spirit of Mexican-American Los Angeles on Ch·vez Ravine, his recently released album about the communities destroyed by the construction of Dodger Stadium in the 1950s. If anyone could pull this off, it would be Cooder. When playing with Pahinui on Chicken Skin Music, he engaged the slack key legend in honest musical conversation. (Listen also to the authenticity of his dialogue with Ali Farka Toure on 1994’s Talking Timbuktu or with V.M. Bhatt on 1993’s A Meeting by the River.) On Ch·vez Ravine, however, he presents not so much a dialogue, but a lecture. Cooder once again collaborates with expert practitioners of someone else’s local music. Flaco Jimenez joins the project, as does Little Willie G. With references to Joe McCarthy and J. Edgar Hoover, however, Cooder creates more of a musical than a piece of music. He evokes a sense of place the way a mapmaker does. He documents it, but he doesn’t bring it to life.
Beck had more success visiting similar sonic spaces on Guero, his earlier 2005 album infused with the sounds of contemporary Southern California. Even better is Guerolito, a CD of remixes by the likes of Air, Diplo, Boards of Canada and Ad-Rock. Always a chameleon, Beck filters all he hears through his own repertoire of voices. He doesn’t imitate. He innovates. Remixes, when successful, make new music out of what people are listening to, and because that’s what Beck does in the first place, Guerolito captures the sound of inspiration inspiring inspiration.
Perhaps music isn’t architecture because songs move through time while buildings stand still. If music sets a scene, it projects it in front of you as it moves and evolves. This is what jazz is–time and space merged into something you can listen to. Jazz in Hawai’i may seem paradoxical, but once you start listening to the good stuff, few things make more sense. Hawai’i offers a unique island culture defined by both its tradition and its constant evolution. Hawai’i, like jazz, is time running forward. Hawai’i, like jazz, is physical space unspooling into improvised moments. Jazz in Hawai’i right now sounds a lot like Dimensions, the debut solo CD by Abe Lagrimas, Jr. Influenced by Noel Okimoto, Martin Denny, Don Tiki, New York bebop and island slack key, Lagrimas plays percussion and ‘ukulele to create music that sounds local, universal, contemporary and timeless. Some talented local ‘ukulele players make music that’s jazzy. Lagrimas, with the assistance of Shawn Conley, Heean Ko, and others, makes music that’s true jazz. Dimensions would fit comfortably on a playlist with the music of Stanley Jordan and Joshua Redmond. Stop reading about this album and go listen to it.
Kronos Quartet is coming to Orvis Auditorium this month, and like Ry Cooder, these musicians find inspiration in the sounds of the globally local. On their 2005 release Mugam Sayagi, Kronos uses the traditional string quartet configuration of cello, viola and two violins, to interpret and accompany the work of Azerbaijani pianist Franghiz Ali-Zadeh. It’s not necessary to have any kind of familiarity with this music in order to enjoy it. Imagine the soundtracks of Psycho and Fantasia mashed with punk classical ouzo drinking songs played by strings and piano. Kronos Quartet uses sounds of far-off people to forge music both esoteric and essential.
Which is what Aerial, the first album by Kate Bush in twelve years, could have been if she cut this double CD in half and focused less on the upbeat pop tunes and more on sublime compositions like the title track. Sung in her crystal clear uber-chirp, she asks, ‘What kind of language is this?/ I can’t hear a word you’re saying/ Tell me, what are you singing/ in the sun.’ On this song, Bush suggests that great music allows the listener to hear what kind of language people speak when they sing in the sun. That’s not exactly dancing about architecture, but it must be pretty damn close.
