The Red Detachment of Women: Art in the Throes of Change

The Red Detachment of Women

Ballet as a medium is restricting and unified, expressive and without limits. These seemingly opposite parallels in the world of dance are not only what makes the art form so beautifully of its own, but what so closely ties it to China, to the recently celebrated 60th anniversary of the Peoples Republic of China.
In an examination of cultural forms—in this circumstance, dance—there is a divine parallel between the nature of the form and the actual artistic piece presented. A desire for escape exists—of leaving the present time to be immersed with the life of the art. The potential catch-22 is the depth of the medium and the cultural/political undertones of these stories.

The story of The Red Detachment of Women, for example, takes place during China’s ten-year Civil War and is about one woman’s trials and tribulations to become the Commissar of the Red Detachment of Women. The end of the play is marked by a vow: “Forward, forward! Under the banner of Mao Zedong, forward to victory!”

Quite clearly there is cultural resonance in The Red Detachment of Women—whether a critique or celebration of history. The Red Detachment of Women was one of “eight” model works permitted during the Cultural Revolution. These stories, ranging from plays to films to operas to ballet performances, have striking political overtones of the time but remain popular today. The resonance a repertoire dance or operatic piece can have is really quite astounding. Consider works like Swan Lake and Don Quixote that have been performed numerous times but remain as cultural milestones in the genre. Red Detachment, in the midst of the Cultural Revolution of China, has morphed into a momentous work, renowned not only for the art of the ballet itself but for its component of history.

Within the collection of dance pieces the National Ballet of China performs, cultural milieus run rampant. The dancers embody not only a timeframe but history, ancestry—the life worked towards and away from—in their profession that in many cases moved the dancers from their families. The parallels between the regimented training of the dancers in contrast to, say, military training, do not go unnoticed. Coincidentally enough, the original dancers from The Red Detachment actually lived in military camps to learn swordplay to vividly portray the soldiers on stage.

In September of 1964, the National Ballet of China premiered The Red Detachment of Women, which would go on to become the first and most successful full-length Chinese ballet. Two versions of the story were filmed—a film in 1961 on which the ballet was based, and the other in 1972 of the production of the National Ballet of China. This Sunday at 3 pm, the Walker will be screening the 1972 filmed ballet as a part of the People’s Republic of Cinema: 60 Years of China on Film. The 1961 film will be screened Monday, November 9th at 6 pm at the University of Minnesota’s Bell Museum Auditorium.

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.

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.

The Walworth Farce has been getting rave reviews on its first North American tour, first in Toronto, then in Columbus, OH, where the Post-Dispatch said “this provocative and ingenious work offers a clever and revealing portrait of how story-telling can become an escape from reality, even a prison … ” We’re expecting more of the same here — and very much looking forward to Walsh’s talk with Guthrie Theater artistic director Joe Dowling this Sunday.

I’m excited to see this show for a number of reasons, but I’m also intrigued to see a what a new play that has been broadly successful. It’s no secret that live performance is having a little trouble competing in a super-saturated entertainment market and a troubled economy.

Why am I excited? For starters last spring the Walker presented three fantastic British performances that appeared at the 2007 Edinburgh Fringe Festival: England, Ape, and Story of a Rabbit. I missed England and was chastised for it by my friends. Ape and Story of a Rabbit were delightfully funny as an audience member and challenging as an artist. They challenged me to continue pushing for humanity and clarity of communication even as my work pushes against theatrical assumptions.

Another reason I’m excited is because we have a thriving theater community in the Twin Cities that is consistently producing funny, human, challenging, outlandish work: The Bedlam, Jon Ferguson Theater, Sandbox, Four Humors, Three Stix, Walking Shadow, Red Eye Collaborations, and even my own Live Action Set. Seeing a new play in the same tradition tour the world is inspiring and gives international context for our work. A particularly successful play like this might also help audiences bridge the gap between the Guthrie and the Bedlam.

So what will The Walworth Farce be? It has more institutional backing than any of its British predecessors (Druid Theatre is an established institution in Galway, Farce was presented by the National Theatre in London and by Traverse Theatre – one of the best venues in Edinburgh), and from this youtube clip it looks more like British TV than the others:Click here to view the embedded video.

As we roll unstoppably towards the impending winter, I’m ready to see something funny and human, maybe a little ridiculous. Are you? If not, check out the Druid website. They make a pretty good case for why The Walworth Farce is special:

http://www.druid.ie/productions/the-walworth-farce-2009

Or if you’re wanting a review, try the NY Times:

http://theater2.nytimes.com/2008/04/19/theater/reviews/19walw.html

Both the challenge and the appeal of any classical tradition—think Western classical music, or classical ballet—lie in its practitioners’ commitment to enacting (at its best) profound expression within a strictly circumscribed vocabulary.

This is true–but I want to add a little to it–which is that the language of a classical form makes up a world. Ideally you cross into that world at some point; you cease to see the vocabulary 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.

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.