Performing Arts

If anyone wants to discuss Reggie Wilson and Andréya Ouamba’s The Good Dance: Dakar/Brooklyn, I think I’ll start things off with a question:

What do you go to dance for—and to what extent did this dance give you that?

And I’ll give a partial answer. One of the things I go to dance for is kinesthetic pleasure—the feeling of the imagined body, the mental map of the body, moving along with the performers on stage. You’d think after five years of being a dance critic, not to mention twenty-five years of dancing, my system would be jaded, responsive only to the most unusual or extreme movements. But as far as I can tell, the kinesthetic sense doesn’t work like that. It’s one of the basic, inexhaustible pleasures of life, like sex or eating. Any time I see an arm reaching to the sky, urge spreading out through the ribcage, I feel the same thrill. Even the minute, waving permutations of a hand are magic.

The Good Dance definitely gave me that—all those sweeps and reaches, plus tiny engines of fine-grained coordination. But the pleasure wasn’t unadulterated. Wilson and Ouamba intentionally (I believe) cut through that pleasure in order to find another aspect of the dance.

I’ll stop there. But what other aspects were you looking for? And what did you find?

Where to begin with the sublime Good Dance?

The Good Dance: Dakar/Brooklyn

Before the performance began, I was comparing the stage to that of another Walker dance performance this season, Bolero Variations. Whereas the stage for Raimund Hoghe was more mysterious, undefined, and open, the stage for The Good Dance is something circumscribed, bare, and exposed. There are no curtains to hide behind like there were in Bolero. But The Good Dance is free from the heavy movements of Bolero, and it exists in a state of play with none of Bolero’s austerity.

Red lights and industrial beats open the show, and the music turns out to be a remix of “Mary, Don’t You Weep” the most jaw-dropping of the tracks on Aretha Franklin’s 1972 live album, Amazing Grace. The track is the most exceptional example I know of both the genre and improvisational genius found in gospel music—the gospel song to send to space—and The Good Dance moves within these rituals and improvisations. The music in Good Dance is so strong, so emotive, from the trance of R.L. Burnside-like blues to the guitar wizardry of Congolese musician Franco.

The Good Dance shifts into a state of play, with disposable water bottles half-empty/half-full kicked and thrown all over the stage. As the bottles are assembled, bowled over, and reassembled on the stage, they create the boundaries within which the dancers move. Since disposable water bottles seem to signify a disconnect from the natural world as much as being a vessel for the life-giving substance of water, it’s tempting to see the dancers moving between this dichotomy throughout the performance. And the water bottles seem to signify many non-literal things as well.

Reggie Wilson asks us to think about what a Good Dance would be in light of the many adherents to the “Good Book”(s). Evoking both the pleasure and pain of rituals, The Good Dance confronts us with the sacrifices necessary for transcendence. It also shows us that it’s only the performer—not the audience member—who can be the most passionate spectator, to both watch and be watched, and it is only the performer who is free to both move and be moved.

The Good Dance is a seduction, the performances of marionettes who are stringless for the first time. Ouamba himself is a tour-de-force. Two nights left; go see The Good Dance.

Jesse Leaneagh is a Performing Arts Intern for the 2009-2010 season

I remember a quote from somewhere or someone that the best concerts should make you feel like you’ll never die. Whoever’s responsible for such wisdom is a kindred spirit of the Mountain Goats’ John Darnielle.

This is more than just the feeling of seeing an amazing show, which everyone at the Cedar was treated to. Darnielle’s stage presence goes beyond the usual clichés of intense, high-energy, playful, exuberant. There is a happiness and comfort on-stage for him, it seems, a sense that he’d be the same way performing in front of 10 people as he’d be 10,000. His frequent shouts to band members, singing off-mic or moving away from the mic before finishing a line, and playful interactions with boisterous audience members exudes an unabashed joy that is neither forced nor presented as a mask.

Darnielle’s voice, a combination of singing, shouting, and preacherly oratory, is the Mountain Goats most recognizable elements, and it cut through the band even at its loudest moments. The group performed songs from a wide range of albums, many from their most recent record, The Life of the World to Come, but also older albums such as Heretic Pride, The Sunset Tree, and even more obscure albums such as Isopanisad Radio Hour and Full Force Galesburg.

Given his more recent exploration of religious themes and imagery—all of the songs on the most recent record take their cues and titles from specific Bible verses—Darnielle is well aware that we all die, and doesn’t shy away from this fact of life. One of the best lyrics of the entire concert is from “Isaiah 45:23,” from the perspective of a terminal cancer patient: “I won’t get better/but someday I’ll be free.” Others take a less individual perspective, referencing an apocalyptic “burning fuselage of my days” on “Psalms 40:2”

Most of the music that serves as these lyrics’ bed, though, didn’t match the morose, grotesque, even violent character of these and other lyrics. Much of it is bright folk-rock-pop that had the tightly-packed crowd moving as much as it could, exuding an optimism that not even the darkest lyrical subjects can overwhelm. And the band can flat-out rock. There were even some moments that I forgot this was a Walker show, like their encore performance of the raucously positive “This Year,” caring little for how aesthetically innovative the words or music might have been and simply the enjoying the abandon that comes with the best rock ‘n’ roll.

One of the things Darnielle and the Mountain Goats are best known for is their lo-fi sound, at least until his more recent albums. There was a nod to that, it seemed, with the choice of keyboard Darnielle used for songs like the darkly ponderous “Ezekiel 7 and the Permanent Efficacy of Grace,” another apocalyptic tale about the necessity of moving forward as the world ends around you. While on The Life of the World to Come, the piano parts are played on what sounds like your standard grand piano, the digital piano sounded slightly thin and tinny, the synthesized equivalent of a spinet. Whether a choice of economy over aesthetics, it just seemed to fit.

Although lo-fi has become its own category of experimentation, the more traditionally experimental side of the night was presented by its opener, Final Fantasy (aka Owen Pallett). I’m a complete sucker for real-time digital looping, and Pallett uses the technique masterfully, recording highly intricate melody lines on keyboard and violin that danced polyphonically through the Cedar’s sound system. Pallett employed much more than loops, with octave transformations, distortions, delays, and other processing effects that heightened the power of his violin. Using a slight delay, he created the illusion of double-time pizzicato, while another time, he made a col legno intro (playing with the wood of the bow instead of the string) even more eerie through the use of a jittery echo. As opposed to Darnielle, Pallett’s warm, rich tenor voice often got lost in the swirling cascades of sound, becoming another instrumental voice. (Comparisons to Andrew Bird are unavoidable, and the two worked together on Pallett’s Pays to Please EP.) Pallett also joined Darnielle for a number of songs, including “Genesis 30:3,” about the “alternative living arrangements” of making a family with three instead of two, and “Orange Ball of Hate.” Before playing this last song, off  of 1994’s Zopilote Machine, Darnielle happily remarked that its gray hair had been shed with the infusion of Pallett’s musical voice.

In the midst of Darnielle’s solo set, a voice from the crowd called for him to do a backflip. Not missing a beat, Darnielle launched into a childhood story about trying to execute the maneuver on his parents bed when no one was looking. For him, not seeing it is the key: unseen, its perfection can never be questioned. The devoted fans who stayed and sang through Darnielle’s second encore, a communal re-telling of the Hold Steady’s “Positive Jam,” could’ve cared less about perfection; they were overjoyed simply to have seen.

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.

First off, The Walworth Farce is a great piece of theater.  What I experienced was specific, surprising, complex, and affecting.  For at least two hours after I left the theater I was on edge, slightly jumpy and uncomfortable, even with objects I found near me.  I’ve been trying to understand what it is in the show that did this to me.  During the performance I laughed and watched.  It was a typical theater experience.  The difference I think was in the physicality of the actors.  I was particularly taken with Tadhg Murphy’s Sean.  But they all moved extremely well, rapidly shifting positions/characters/physicalities.  Following the transitions took a lot of attention: mental and physical.  (Neuroscientists have demonstrated that when watching a person do a movement “mirror neurons” fire in the brain of the observer as if he/she were actually moving.)  When the play ended I felt like my body had been through the wringer.  I was stimulated from the effort of watching and exhausted.

Secondly, The Walworth Farce is an Irish piece of theater.  I’ve seen movies and read books about the plight of the Irish under the oppressive thumb of the English.  The Walworth  Farce advanced this story of colonization.  The way Dennis’ sons struggle underneath him and become him is about learning their Irish heritage, but they learn it in a Council Flat in England.  The sons are trapped in a tiny apartment in a country that is not their own without any real knowledge of Ireland.  It’s a transcultural story.

The Irish have been going to England to make their fortune for over a hundred years.  It’s an old story and it’s still happening today.  More than ever people are traveling to rich world cities, leaving their youth, home and family to make money in a foreign culture.   This isn’t always pretty.  It reveals and reinforces unsavory power dynamics – in families and in society.  For the past day, I’ve been wondering about metaphors in The Walworth Farce.  I keep coming back to the metaphor of the transcultural experience.  It’s is surprising.  We certainly have these problems in America.  Look at the recent news surrounding the Somali population here in Minnesota.

I felt and enjoyed the skill of The Walworth Farce’s actors, director, and designers.  For me, what makes the play great is that I also felt the consequence in the play Edna Walsh wrote.

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.