[205.1]
A NEW YORK STATE OF SOUND
New York, where I was staying with friends recently, is a city pulsating with music. From bars and clubs to concert halls, buskers, street sounds and stores – melody, harmony, rhythm and dissonance seeps uncontrollably from its pores.
As I arrive on Amtrak from Washington DC, a man on the train next to me is listening to
Charles Ives on his headset. I can tell this from the CD sleeve by his side rather than any discernible notes emerging from his earphones, but it is enough to evoke the music in my head.
On a Realty company’s forecourt a reggae trio, unlikely and popular with the passing lunchtime crowd, strike out with
Bob Marley’s Exodus and more.
Then on one walk the
Lincoln Centre comes into view. I remember hearing the
Lincoln Jazz Orchestra at the
Proms in London several years ago. In the aesthetic battle between
Wynton Marsalis and the variegated memory of
Miles Davis, I’m on Miles’ wing. But you don’t have to choose. The custodians of tradition and its innovators into new forms and possibilities can live together, if they are smart.
Mostly
Mozart is on. But it seems to be mostly
Beethoven,
Mido, and the merest smattering of contemporary composition – which would not please Wolfgang Amadeus, surely? Steven and I talk Thomas Ades.
Across the road, of course, is Strawberry Fields, the shrine to
John Lennon (‘Imagine’) and
Yoko Ono’s overlooking apartment. The ‘found sounds’ beloved of
John Cage are everywhere. And the imagined silences.
Laurie Anderson haunts the sidewalks, resting between the cracks and rushing the red lights.
Somewhere else is the building depicted on
Led Zeppelin’s
Physical Graffiti album. And in a studio I get a personal performance (well a rehearsal, actually) from
R.U.B...with my friend
Steven Sullivan doing the maths on bass for some reworked ‘80s material – including
Depeche Mode (when they finally do the gig on 6 August 2007) and
Elvis Costello’s ‘Pump It Up’.
Not quite
The Juliet Letters, admittedly. But my mind slips naturally to the
Balanescu Quartet,
Nonesuch,
Eno,
Kronos Quartet and other border-crossings on the musical superhighway.
Talking of which: in Borders itself, I pick up
Suzanne Vega’s new NY-centric collection,
Beauty and Crime (11 songs bursting with hope, anguish and delight). Plus I note the relative absence of
Tippett,
A Child Of Our Time and some
Ogden piano sonatas aside.
In another store I peek at the New Orleans jazz (is
Woody Allen at Michael’s Pub tonight?), I peer at a
Gramophone article on
Ian Bostridge rescuing
Handel, and I hear a track from the
New York Dolls – who I never really liked, to be honest. But beloved
Morrissey gets them, so there must be some point.
On CD in Jane and Steve’s apartment I take in, at various times,
Bartok,
Kodaly,
Messiaen,
Yes,
Starcastle (don’t ask),
Montreux,
Arctic Monkeys, and the not-quite-forgotten
John McLaughlin,
Tony Williams (of Lifeime) and
Jaco Pastorius power jazz trio. Press random again.
Something I listen to – I forget what, exactly – reminds me of that quintessentially NY downtown new music ensemble and festival,
Bang On A Can. And in Virgin records I pass racks of
Glenn Branca, whose post-punk orchestrations beat the eardrums into submission while enlivening them with sub- and après-sonic overtones, allegedly.
Last, but not least, is the Summer of Love psychedelia art exhibit at the Whitney –
Jimi Hendrix, the artist who painted the cover of Miles’ experimental classic
Bitches Brew,
Jefferson Airplane,
Ginsberg,
Warhol and the
Velvet Underground, a picture of
Adrian Mitchell on the steps of the Royal Albert Hall (he now lives on my street in NW5),
Janis Joplin,
Julie Felix… more memories than my mind an hold.
Sing on, New York… from
The Met all the way out West to Haight Ashbury. And well beyond.
[Picture: Suzanne Vega, Beauty and Crime]
Comment on this post: NewFrontEars
"Lore Lixenberg [pictured] and Adey Grummet have worked together for years. Between them they sing some of the scariest contemporary scores know to humanity. Perhaps this is sheer foolhardiness and perhaps this is true courage. Whatever, it means that they never get cast in standard repertoire or considered for nice polite parts in nice polite opera houses with music where you know how many beats are in the next bar. Funny that. And a bit sad.
