Performing Arts

The McGuire Theater was turned into a sonic Icelandic outpost Thursday night as múm, Sin Fang Bous, and Hildur Gu∂nadóttir treated the audience to an evening that mixed awkwardness, dreaminess, and exuberance.

Gu∂nadóttir opened the night, with a quirky, shoeless bounce to her step that was reflected in her 3 songs. The first was for solo cello, as long tones gently morphed into digitally-processed responses; an entire cello ensemble eventually unfurled.  (This ensemble, however, was interrupted by someone wanting to Gmail chat with her; 6 beeps total marked her performance, and her scrambling to close windows after the piece finished clearly showed that such aleatoric intrusions were not intended.) As she added musicians for the rest of her set, they all expertly blended timbres, with the rasp of her cello melding with the synth and trumpet lines of Eiríkur Orri Ólafsson, resulting in soothing, almost gauzy harmonies and soundscapes.

A few of the same musicians performed with Sin Fang Bous, the experimental project of Seabear’s Sindri Már Sigfússon. Whereas Gu∂nadóttir’s set was dreamy in a sort of floating-along-the-clouds way, Sigfússon created a world that was close enough to daily life (evinced by the very pop-oriented nature of the songs) but just askew enough to keep a listener on her toes (unexpected syncopations, extended guitar techniques, vocal distortions, and opaque lyrics). One lyric in particular, “looking at me through broken eyes,” summarized his stage presence: never before have I seen a more vacant look on someone’s face while performing. Most of the songs simply petered out, punctuated by a slightly practiced-sounding “Thank you.” The last song was the exception, which finished with a huge buildup over Sigfússon’s wordless falsetto vocals.

múm took the stage abruptly after Sigfússon’s set. Two of the members came out, sat down at the Steinway, and performed “Ladies of the New Century,” from their latest record, Sing Along to Songs You Don’t Know. (The majority of their set was culled from there.) A bunch of the same musicians who performed earlier in the evening took the stage as part of múm, including Hildur Gu∂nadóttir. Elements from earlier in the night marked múm’s performance, for better and for worse. There were some incredible musical moments, with wonderfully-matched harmonies throughout the group, especially from Gu∂nadóttir and fellow vocalist-instrumentalist Sigurlaug Gísladóttir. There were also more of the mesmerizingly blended timbres, this time spread throughout melodica, cello, violin, synth, trumpet, piano, and guitar. I quickly stopped listening to the lyrics, though. At times the words were thought provoking, as on “Show Me,” with a desire to “show me the way you worship little things,” but for the most part I found the lyrics a bit inane. Turning off that part of my brain allowed me to bathe in their soundscapes and really appreciate the best part of the show, which was their utter happiness in performing. They even did a bit of audience interaction: Dana the band’s monitor person held up fluorescent signs akin to a bouncing ball during “Sing Along,” expressing the band’s love for this particular crowd. Such joy and exuberance seems capable of melting even the coldest Minnesota—or Icelandic—winter.

Just went last night. Beautiful.
During the first scene, I have to admit, my mind wandered a little. But I was completely drawn in by the second scene, and this lasted through the end of the show. I think mostly this was me getting used to the style (also, partly, the fact that the first scene is the busiest and least clear). So if you’re going tonight, give your eyes some time to adjust. Oh, and read the program notes, so you know the story.
Dhvee culminates in a battle between good and evil, between Rama and Ravana. Normally we try not to see things in such black-and-white terms, but there’s an undeniable compulsion about that struggle. Rama and his brother Lakshmana (Ashwini Ramaswamy and Amanda Dlouhy) looked like embodiments of rightness from their forthright faces to their open gestures, from their clear steps to their white costumes. Ravana (Tamara Nadel, I Gusti Ngurah Serama Semadi, and others–hey, he has 10 heads) was the opposite, with his stamping, his crimped fingers, and his awful echoing laugh. Even though I knew who would win, I felt in suspense–on the edge of my seat, even.
I loved that the ending took us back to the beginning–it left the story, for me, in an eternal present tense.
If anyone wants to follow up with discussion, here are some ideas:
• the dance/theatrical form here (perhaps considering how it broadens our ideas of dance)
• the story–why is the battle of good and evil such a compelling story for us, even now?
• cross-cultural comprehension (or lack thereof)

I’m looking forward to Ragamala this weekend. Think of Dhvee as an immersion in sound, color, dance, acting, story, etc–the multifaceted performance arts of south Asia.
I was lucky enough to be at rehearsal on one of the first days when Ragamala (Mpls) joined forces with Cudamani (Bali). Translation, improvisation, everyone excited by everyone else’s art, and the gamelan crowded into the corner–if you’ve never heard one, you really have to. It’s an orchestra in itself.

BLK JKS' Linda Buthelezi. Photo by Justin Schell

“Enjoy the rainbow. It’s not about the pot of gold at the end.” So said guitarist Mpumi Mcata near the opening of  BLK JKS’ 90-minute set at the Cedar Cultural Center. The opening of the 2009 Global Roots Festival (the first year the Cedar’s usual “Nordic Roots” festival has gone global), it’s hard not to hear echoes of Nelson Mandela and the idea of the “rainbow nation” as an idealized post-Apartheid South Africa in the Jo’Burg group, “a rainbow nation,” in his words, “at peace with itself and the world.”  Anybody who has followed South Africa over the past 10 years—or at least has seen District 9—knows how complicated such an idea has become.

While this kind of politics only briefly appeared during their set—more on that later—the packed house at the Cedar was treated to a bewildering mix of genres, with roots in music from Soweto to Kingston to London and all points in between. Their roots seem to be in prog rock, with the band’s long, winding guitar and bass lines and on-the-fly shifts in mixed meters, while at other times I felt like I was listening to a spontaneous dub record, especially with the processed drum sounds and vocals. (In a 2008 cover story, Fader described them as “afrogothic,” a neologism that only hints at the variety of styles and influences churning beneath BLK JKS’s surface.)

There was lots of obvious communication between Mcata and the rest of the members of the group— Tshepang Ramoba on drums, Molefi Makananise on bass, and lead singer and guitarist Linda Buthelezi—as they seemed to figure out their path through the songs as they played them. Their positions on-stage, in a straight line instead of the usual drummer-in-back hierarchy, lent itself both to this ease of communication as well as no one musician occupying the center of attention. All this led to sometimes startlingly different versions of songs like “Molatatladi,” “Summertime,” and “Tselane.” This last song was especially striking, a slow, almost dirge-like song at times, with a long buildup that seemed to match the eerie nature of its subject, a folk tale-cum-bedtime story about the ogre Dingwe kidnapping little girls.

Buthelezi and Ramoba seem to be foils for each other, the latter’s frenetic energy and churning drums seemed sometimes at odds with the almost disaffected singing of Buthelezi. For much of the time, Buthelezi looked suspicious of those in the first couple rows. By the end of the show, however, he had shed this stoicism, as he threw guitars and mics to the ground, pecking the entire body of the guitar and twiddling knobs to bring forth ever weirder sounds from his amps.

The group’s audience-demanded encore started out as the most politically-engaged moment of the show, with shout outs to Steve Biko and African Youth organizing in 1974. In fact, it was the most straight-ahead song, with much less of the rhythmic elasticity that marked the rest of the set. (Mcata did say it was a popular political rally song, but I couldn’t recognize it or catch the title over the wash of distortion that crowded his words.) As the minutes went by, dreads, sticks, and microphones, guitars, and cymbals flailed in an incredible, Acid Mothers Temple/Boredoms-worthy freak out, an incredible release of all the built-up energy of the previous 80 minutes. While this might not have been the usual pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, both the path and the end BLK JKS painted at the Cedar were thoroughly enjoyed by both the band and audience.

When I first heard Jewellry, the debut LP from Micachu & The Shapes, I was simultaneously irritated and instantly a fan. Noises grate and lyrics obfuscate amidst the wry, spastic, educatedly uneducated music of Mica Levi, aka Micachu.

The boyish, blond-mopped Micachu shared the Cedar’s stage with Marc Pell and Raisa Khan, Pell on drums and Khan multitasking on laptop, auxiliary percussion, and keyboards. They not only looked young, they were young, all in the early 20s. (This was one of the few shows I’ve been to recently where I felt old.)

Most of Jewellry, the group’s debut album, is danceable as hell, while at the same time intellectually satisfying on an headphone-close listen. There are very few songs that sound similar on Jewellry, each a testament to timbral and sonic subtlety. These sounds are spread out in all parts of the stereo spectrum, and Micachu’s voice effortlessly dips into and out of the digital washes behind it. Such detail is due in part, no doubt, to the masterful presence of Matthew Herbert. And this combination also make it impossible to sit still on songs like “Vulture,” “Lips,” “Golden Phone,” and the Pee Wee Herman-channeling “Calculator.”

Unfortunately, neither of these elements were really on view at the Cedar, the band’s first date on their first US tour. The level of detail on Jewellry wasn’t there during the live show, which can mostly be chalked up to the live atmosphere,  which doesn’t easily allow for the kinds of details possible on record. There were some moments that showed why the band should play these songs live, such as the intricate percussion duets between Pell and Khan (played on everything from garbage can lid cymbals to cowbells to bottles) and the explosive bass of “Floor” that seemed to catch everybody by surprise. And it was entertaining just to watch Micachu, whether it be her vocal delivery or the variety of instruments she played, which included a Frankenstein-ish acoustic bedecked with adaptations, a seemingly constantly de/untuned electric, and what looked like a home-made (anti-)Auto-Tune contraption. While her stage presence itself is nothing extraordinary, she has a wonderful, if unintentional, sneer while delivering her lyrics, lyrics that are opaque enough already without the accent.

It didn’t help that the audience was one of the stiffest I’ve ever seen at a show, at the Cedar or anywhere else. It wasn’t until the very last song that they started whoopin’ it up with joyful responses to “Golden Phone.” I was expecting a twitchy mass of spastically dancing hipsters, but few obliged.

Nothing about Micachu & The Shapes is all that new, whatever Pitchfork might say; shades of Deerhoof, Aphex Twin, Sonic Youth, Harry Partch (who is appropriately, if unexpectedly, thanked in the liner notes), Brainiac and numerous other pop/avant-garde acts all echo in Micachu’s overtones. That doesn’t mean, of course, that the show was a drag or Jewellry is any less impressive. Let’s just hope that the audiences on the rest of their tour will be a bit more effusive in their appreciation.

A screen is stretch on the diagonal upstage left, the 2 lower corners taut by 2 ballerinas in white tutus and pointe shoes.  The mountain from Paramount Motion Picture Company is projected against it.  Sally is carried out and attached to to a rope that hangs centerstage.  She is wearing a kilt-like cape with an S.  She is flung against the screen over and over and over.  She pounds her fists and feet against it in the same rhythm with the same dynamic for what seems like 3 or 4 minutes- is this a proclamation or penitence?

Photo by Cameron Wittig, courtesy Walker Art Center

The next scene is a circus-like flurry of dancers including Jim Dominick, Taylor Dreyling, Sarah Fifer, Penelope Freeh, Marisha Johnson, Anshul Paranjape, Kimberly Richardson, Sally Rousse, Dylan Skybrook, and Laurie van Weiren. They waltz with flexed feet and spiraling arms.  I see a bullfighter, Michael Jackson Thriller choreography, and a humorous moment when the dancers hit their foreheads with the heels of their hands.  Who are they? What are their roles?

“Paramount to my footage” covers a history of the life of Sally Rousse.  I see that Alek Keshishian, most known for Madonna’s Truth or Dare, was a creative consultant.  Will Sally be just as sexy yet emotionally disconnected as Madonna in revealing what lies behind the public image of an iconic figure?

A lot of territory was covered in 45 minutes.  Some poignant moments for me were seeing a projection of Sally’s father’s eye against the diagonal screen as if he were watching the performance from atop a mountain, Kimberly Richardson’s solo as Goddess of the Wind, a duet between Penelope Freeh and Sally in which they tap dance in their pointe shoes, LVW as an MC asking cliche celebrity questions, and when Sally finally mourned a loss- that of her first husband- and cried into a harmonica.  I wonder what it would be like to explore just one of the many facets of Sally’s life more in-depth for a production? Say focusing on just the story of her first husband? Or the birth of her first child? or just her childhood?  It’s challenging to face a time constraint of a shared evening.

An autobiography can be empowering because one can acknowledge that oneself has been through a lot to get where they are today.  It can be triumphant and a testament to one’s survival through the good and bad.  An autobiography can also be quite vulnerable.  I wonder if I hadn’t read the closing statement that shares the details of the creator’s life prior to the performance.  If I hadn’t, how might the experience been different? How can an artist transcend from personal to universal so that a viewer has a connection to the work? Let’s talk.

5 performers, each in  vintage laden bold colors- orange, blue, purple, yellow, red- stand in a line and stare at the house.  The cast is “introduced” and I don’t need to look in my program to learn  names or backgrounds.  They are highly reputable dancers in this community and each of them is going to shine in Megan Mayer’s production, which is enticingly titled “I Could Not Stand Close Enough to You.” This is my first Megan Mayer experience and I’m reminded of the unique, colorful, clever and detailed work of film director Wes Anderson, who is gifted at working with iconic figures from the Hollywood scene by filming eccentric characters that resonate with a certain familiarity.

Photo by Cameron Wittig, courtesy Walker Art Center

Megan wrote in her artist statement that she wanted to “create distinctive solos for each of the performers inspired by their commanding presences both onstage and off.”  She was successful!   Here’s what I observed:

Greg Waletski’s solo was charming and playful as he reveled in exuberance shouting “Oh my God!” as he climbed the stairs into the house of the Southern Theater.  I’m reminded of joyful first experiences in my childhood- the thrill of the stage, pride in the small successes.

Kristin Van Loon performed an exquisite solo inverted against the wall to Louie Armstrong  lyrics “I put a spell on you…..”  I was intrigued by the manipulation of her face with her hands to create a caricature of someone devious and determined.  She stopped, took a sip of whiskey, sprayed down her mane with aerosol hairspray, then returned to the wall.  Oh yeah, we get a sneak peak at some striped underwear (a foreshadowing of the closing scene).  She is utterly captivating as a performer on stage with her authentic responses, intentional articulation and total body connection.

Charles Campbell, the performer who ate regurgitated green peas and urinated on the stage floor of Bryant Lake Bowl in a piece I saw back a few months ago (which by the way was unforgettable!), shared a triumphant piece with a trophy.  Napoleon Dynamite only wishes he could dance that well!

And now Megan Mayer, the creator.  Here we go……….. She struggles to find that picture perfect shape then beats the air with her limbs before crumbling to the floor. She’s up and bourres (spell?) offstage and returns with a bar stool to take a seat and sing Elvis’s heartbreaking lyrics “Were you lying when you said you loved me?”  She passes out from the drama? the exertion? the heartache?- we laugh.  She retreats to a hidden corner upstage against the shins.  We see her blue legs as the cast stays centerstage and improvises with crossed legs on chairs.

Drums kick in- a duple meter aerobics routine begins- the 4 performers create a rhythmic machine that rotates and they begin to talk about hmmmm, an inside joke?

Lights and sound out. I hear ventilation and rattling in the Southern. No one in the house moves or coughs.  Megan returns to the space with a light and she illuminates the walls, the grid, the house, and the dancers.  It’s very zen as we all become present to take a moment and examine this space with fresh eyes.

Theresa Madaus is the last to perform a solo.  She is the kid sister of the group, but she holds her own performing a little ditty with finger puppets, running, and finishes by flying home into the arms of her family. Dig the green high tops!

After a mambo routine, the cast takes their clothes off to reveal psychadelic undies.  They line up down centerstage and they synchronistically fall back – a unified group- to the upstage brick wall, pinned, poised, finished.

I’m curious about Megan’s process in relation to the spontaneity of the flow of the performance.  One thing is apparent, there was a strong sense of community and comradre amidst the performers.  They danced together, and respectfully complimented the soloist that took a turn in the spotlight.   I can only imagine that rehearsals were fun and playful. Nice.

Edwin Suarez opens “The Apple Tree” as he gazes into a swirling blue pool centerstage.  Black out.

2 silk screens unfold beneath the Southern Theater’s archway.  I experience a projection of grass with stone amidst a soundscore of wind.  I see elements of Earth, Air, Fire, and finally Water.  Sachiko slowly appears upstage- she is curled in all white and slowly unravels to the gorgeous music created by Ben Abrahamson and La Conja.

Photo by Cameron Wittig, courtesy Walker Art Center

Laura Horn as the Apple Tree comes to life and the two women dance together- spiraling and twisting in both unison and aunison phrases.  Precise shapeshifting unfolds- these Flamenco dancers have an ability to balance fluidity in the core and arms simultaneously with bold strength and rhythmic percussion in their feet.

Sachiko and Edwin meet for a duet.  She now garners a long mermaid tail-like skirt in bold orange, which she exquisitely maneuvers throughout their encounter.  Passion is tangible in the air for a dramatic courting.

3 guys shows up and distract Edwin from his life mission.  They circle him and tease with a 4-count meter of stomp-clap-clap-clap repeated over and over.  Laura and Sachiko twirl upstage behind the safety of the white transparent walls.  The men welcome Edwin back, but back to what?

All is silent and I see a balancing white light projected against the silk screen wall stage left.  I see moving dots in the globe reminiscent of birds.  The tree (Laura) and the girl (Sachiko) counterbalance with one another upstage.  There is tension in their breath.  The girl moves into the globe and then into a tunnel of light on the diagonal from downstage right to upstage left.  And now I am engaged………

Our female heroine moves on this diagonal of light- she is tormented by her past and by the future ahead.  Her eyes can’t stand to stay present- she only looks ahead and behind.  She shivers, lunges and whirls as she closes her eyes to the passion from time to time.  I see a silhouette of her spiraling fingers against her neck, torso and face.  She argues with the tree, and then the shimmering pool of blue light from the opening scene reappears center stage.  The girl is beckoned.  She pulls away and begins a rhythmic shuffling of her feet that is synchronistically executed with the beat of La Conga’s clapping hands.  She succumbs to the water and bends backwards as the tree regrows above her.

“The Apple Tree” closed with the young man (Edwin) back at the opening scene- he is haunted by images of the young girl, reminiscent of the previous scenes of her dancing.  He grabs for her in the air and pulls his fists into his core.  They are empty and the lights fade.

I enter the Southern Theater at 7:45pm and  the performance has already begun.  A group of performers, about 50 or so, are circling the stage walking, indifference on their faces.  Their direction is counterclockwise, perhaps suggesting a resistance to time, or even a timeless event- one that could take place at any 45 minutes in history.

Photo by Cameron Wittig, courtesy Walker Art Center

Smart, intelligent, and ambitious to have 68 performers joining a Director on stage.  68 performers who may or may not have experience, and I happen to know a handful of them who are students of mine at Zenon Dance School.  Isn’t that the woman I see at the Wedge each week? And that guy- he’s around Dinkytown, perhaps he’s a student at the University of Minnesota?  These performers are proud to be acknowledged as they revel in their stage time at the Southern Theater.  I am proud of them too.  Program notes indicate that the recruitment took place over 2 months via flyers, emails, and posts.  Bringing dance to the masses. Ambitious.

Obviously, the house is sold out.  If each performer were to invite 2 guests- there you have it. Smart.

The indifference is halted as a member of “En Masse” leaves the group to introduce themselves in the microphone,  ”I am …., I’m from a small town named ………….., it’s that place not far from…………”  I am intrigued by the individuality and history behind the voice of each and every one of these members.  Some in suits, some in sweats, some decked out, others as if they just got off their bike.  There is a projection of the group against the walls of the Southern in a negative imposed image, circling in the same counter-clockwise direction in slow motion, a contrast between a gentle gait and a 90 degree bent angle jog.

The director moves to the center of the group and starts a trot and they join her.  Memories of Grand Central Station flood my mind as they run about, doing their daily business as an unforgettable face in a crowd.  I see a beautiful kaleidoscope of bodies- different sizes, shapes, colors, textures, aesthetics, and backgrounds.

Suddenly the group splits in half- like an atom and the projection is of atoms in space, dots on a map, as the Brian Eno-like soundscore turns way up, way up til I feel it in vibrating in my core.  Riot!!!!  Disease, infection, anger, violence, close proximity is no longer celebrated but becomes infectious.  I see b-boys striking inverted poses, Modern dance heiresses striking tender positions, and others running all over the aisles and house of the theater.  Light emits from 2 speaker-like light rigs that hang just behind the archway. I love it! Is it an alien invasion? Close encounters of the Third Kind? A rave? A concert? A celebration?  I dig those lights- I want more!

Lights out.  I’m afraid of the dark. I hear breathing, steps shuffling, and a frantic urgency to find the collective wholeness of the group.  There is safety in numbers, safety in numbers, safety in numbers…….

Lights up- they waltz.  I wonder what it would be like if in place of these very performers we had members of the diverse dance pools of the Twin Cities dance community pairing up and moving in harmony.

Vanessa emerges from the group- she is lost in the crowd- standing her significance- a duality of invisibility and conformity with individuality and ownership.

The collective evolves into a gesture- I am fascinated with the idea of the childhood game “telephone.” A word or gesture translated into a crowd of 68- the variations and slight imperfections are intriguing.   I find relief when they walk as pedestrians again, that familiar indifference feels satisfying. Stop! thump, thump, thump. A steady pulse that is reflected in beautiful projection against the proscenium, music that matches.   I want more, stop, wait, there it is again. Thump, thump, thump.  The group taps their fingers to their chest, their heart, in perfect synchronicity to the walls and the sound.  Home.

The stage is disassembled- those fabulous 2 speak-like light boards struck, the microphones dismantled. I hear celebration in their voices and steps and gestures.  A task has been accomplished with great efficiency and grace- the power of community effort.

There’s little debate about Thelonious Monk’s place in the jazz pantheon, yet Jason Moran is not content for Monk to just be revered. In My Mind is Moran’s multimedia exploration of the continued presence—and present-ness—of Monk, in particular his landmark 1959 Town Hall big band concert.

What often makes Monk’s piano playing so incredible is his almost infinitely malleable sense of time, how he could stretch and pull apart the rhythm of a song to its very seams yet remain firmly in the pocket. Moran and the rest of the rhythm section—Tarus Mateen on bass and Nasheet Waits on drums—transferred this concept to the entire section and took it as the foundation for all of their interpretations, resulting in a skillful and subtle pushing and pulling of time that always kept each other—and the audience—on their toes.

For the most part, unfortunately, the work’s visual elements lacked the subtlety that marked so much of the evening’s music. For instance, at one point Moran cut back and forth between live video of the band and fractured collages of 1959 newspapers, which didn’t leave much to the imagination. An exception, however, was a digitally-weathered, almost stop-motion slideshow of Moran’s studio, as he described his musical history, one intertwined with Monk’s own. (He was introduced to Monk’s music when he learned about a plane crash that killed a family friend and it was this music that made him want to take the piano seriously.) The half photograph, half-sketch images not only blurred the lines between these two different life stories, but also the process of influence that In My Mind foregrounds both as representation and end result.

In the end, I found that the evening’s best moments actually had very little to do with the work’s visuals, one which was intentional and the other which most likely wasn’t.

The first was the work’s opening, with Moran walking on stage and donning headphones. Soon the opening notes of “Thelonious,” the first song on the original record (The Thelonious Monk Orchestra at Town Hall), dimly fill the hall; it was like the audience was in Moran’s mind, overhearing the explorations and results of his working through the past as he vacillated between doubling and embellishing Monk’s piano lines.

The second was near the middle of the performance, after the performers had walked off stage following a particularly pointed comparison between Monk’s slave grandparents and his own beating at the hands of police. Recorded music accompanying the visuals made Nasheet Waits’ snare rattle with sympathetic vibrations. This normally annoying occurrence—a snare that the drummer forgot to switch off ruining a particularly intimate moment—actually crystallized In My Mind nicely, the music from the past serving as a catalyst, both literally and figuratively, for the creation of something new.

(Like my colleague Mark, I’d also like to thank Michelè and everyone involved at the Walker for giving me the opportunity to write about this year’s concerts. I’m excitedly anticipating another slate of impressive concerts next year.)