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Joy Division


My review of the new oral history of Joy Division in the May issue of The Brooklyn Rail:

Exploded View


My review of the international post-post-punk band Exploded View has been published in the Brooklyn Rail:



I reviewed a new oral history of Swans for The Brooklyn Rail, check it out here!





My conversation with Protomartyr’s Joe Casey is included in this month’s issue of The Brooklyn Rail:

Nov. Essays


My final essay in a four-part series published by the essential NewMusicBox web magazine. You can find all four pieces here:

Trumpet Clouds


A beautiful performance of Craig Shepard‘s Trumpet Clouds for 14 trumpets last Thursday in Madison Square Park, presented at the opening of Erwin Redl’s light sculpture “WhiteOut.” The performance unfolded over the course of an hour, as the performers moved through the park in various choreographed formations, brilliantly projecting the composer’s haunting score. It was a cold and blustery autumn evening, and the performance had the feeling of a ritual. Here is a short recording I captured:

Bottoms Up


I probably shouldn’t be doing this, but I just have to share this audio clip from Iggy Pop‘s BBC6 radio show last Friday. For the last few weeks he has been playing short excerpts from Pauline Oliveros‘ electronic composition “Bottoms Up”, and this week he just went off about it, in a good way!  Check it out!

FYI, Iggy’s weekly show, “Iggy Confidential” is the best thing on the airwaves (or the internet), check it out every Friday at 19:00 London time:

Here’s the clip:




Remembering Pauline Oliveros

Although it has been nearly a year since Pauline Oliveros unexpectedly passed away, I am still at a loss to comprehend the world without her in it. Of all the teachers, role models, colleagues and collaborators I have engaged with as a musician, none has had a greater influence than Pauline Oliveros. Her brilliance, generosity, wisdom and humanity touched a great many people, and I know I am in good company when I say that Pauline Oliveros was the most important mentor of my life. This piece is intended to both capture my memories of Pauline before they fade, and to honor her legacy.

I first became aware of Pauline and her music in the early 1980s through her recordings Accordion & Voice and The Well and the Gentle which my older brother owned. Later in the 80s I discovered her book Software for People in the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library in Washington, DC which I studied alongside such books as John Cage’s Silence, R. Murray Shaefer’s The Tuning of The World. Also at that time I became a regular reader Ear Magazine and Musicworks Magazine that often featured stories and reviews involving Pauline, and so it was that she became an important figure in my growing awareness of contemporary experimental music.

I first met her in June of 1992, at the Rose Mountain Retreat Center in Las Vegas, New Mexico, the site of a five-day Deep Listening Retreat led by Pauline and Heloise Gold. At that time I was a BFA student at CalArts, and having discovered an advertisement for the retreat in Musicworks, decided to join during my summer break. Situated in a virtual wilderness area in the Sangre De Cristo mountains high above the nearest town, the retreat followed a strict and rigorous schedule, and participants were required to spend much of each day in silence. Activities included breathing exercises, movement meditation, silent walks, tai chi, card readings, Deep Listening Council, and extensive Deep Listening Training. Much of the training involved Pauline leading the group in many of her Deep Listening Meditations, each with a set of written instructions, which we, as a group pursued in various settings in and around the retreat center. This was quite a first encounter with Pauline, and the retreat as a whole was a transformative experience, the echoes of which still resonate for me today.

I had relatively little contact with Pauline over the next few years as I completed my studies at CalArts. I do recall listening to her music regularly however, most often the recording Troglodytes’s Delight and other recordings by the Deep Listening Band which I was becoming increasingly enamored of. It wasn’t until January of 1996 that I again encountered her in person. Having completed my studies at CalArts, I eventually found my way to the music program at Mills College, ostensibly to study with Alvin Curran, who until that time was the holder of the Darius Milhaud Chair in Composition. As it would happen, my arrival in mid-year coincided with the announcement that Alvin and Pauline would be sharing the chair beginning in Fall 1996. Thus, the four semesters I spent earning my MA were spent alternately as a student of Alvin and Pauline, both of whom were marvelous teachers.

In addition to weekly private lessons, I attended Pauline’s weekly composition seminar, getting a much broader sense of her music and vision. Our private lessons were especially productive for me, and I remember several  important episodes that had a major impact on my musical practice. In the first, while a student at Mills I was a member of the open and malleable Mills Contemporary Performance Ensemble, a project of the music department that combined students with faculty and community members in realizing a variety of experimental, open form scores. Ensemble members often brought original scores in this style to try out, and for several weeks I developed a piece of my own. Combining traditional notation with written instructions, my first versions, when brought to the ensemble, failed to bring about the music and sounds that I was after. Finally, I brought my latest draft to my lesson with Pauline, and bringing her vast experience with text-based scores to bear, gave me some invaluable insight on how to integrate the notes with the verbal instructions. Her advice had mostly to do with language – how to ask the right questions, and something immediately clicked. At the following meeting of the Contemporary Performance Ensemble, I distributed my latest revision which took to heart Pauline’s suggestions, and much to my amazement, my piece came alive! I remember emailing her (I was then using my first ever email address) the news of my “breakthrough” and receiving a warm congratulations in return.

Another important episode also involved the Contemporary Performance Ensemble. Though I can’t recall the complete sequence of events, the outcome was my becoming a hammer dulcimer player. Though I had owned a dulcimer for many years, my relationship to it had remained limited and private. Through Pauline’s encouragement, her example as an accordionist in experimental music, and the broader experimental musical instrument culture in the Bay Area, I decided to bring my dulcimer to the ensemble as my primary instrument. This began what has become a long term relationship between me and the hammer dulcimer, and an essential part of my musical identity.

Another significant episode was a week long residency of the Deep Listening Band at Mills College in 1997. I was already well-versed in their recordings to that point, most of which were made in purely acoustic environments, such as the Fort Worden cistern. But this residency revolved around the Expanded Instrument System (EIS) which the Band had developed to simulate in live performances the extreme reverb of their original recording sites. For the better part of the week, the Band – Pauline, Stuart Dempster and David Gamper – held court in a large room within the music building with the EIS fully setup, holding demonstrations, talks, and offering students the opportunity to try it out themselves. During that week I had an opportunity to explore and conceptualize my own newly discovered hammer dulcimer in an electronically expanded way. Thus, my current work with the electroacoustic hammer dulcimer is directly rooted in this  encounter with the Deep Listening Band.

I left Mills in 1997 and remained in the Bay Area until I moved to New York in early 2001. Throughout those years I remained in close contact with Pauline. In addition to her teaching at Mills, she was very active in the wider Bay Area community with a variety of projects, such as the Circle Trio with India Cooke and and Karolyn van Putten, and The Space Between with Dana Reason and Philip Gelb and I often attended performances by these and other groups she formed. She also organized a number of music/performance works, bringing together different artists from her wider circle. She invited me to participate in one such event, The Rabbit in the Moon which saw two performances at Theater Yugen and a related event at the Meridian Gallery, both in San Francisco. The piece combined the poetry of Brian Komei Dempster, choreography by June Watanabe, and music by Pauline. I was among a cast of eleven performers that included Pauline and June, with Loren Dempster, Philip Gelb, Una Nakamura, Tako Oda, Mariah Parker, Toyoji Tomita, and the legendary Wong sisters, Shirley and Betty.

Meeting the Wongs was another key event that Pauline engineered. Betty and Shirley, twin sisters born and raised in San Francisco’s Chinatown, were students of Pauline’s many years earlier at UCSD, and were  themselves well known figures in the Bay Area music community, performing widely as chamber musicians, and leading the Chinese and near eastern folk music groups, The Flowing Stream and Phoenix Spring Ensembles. When I began to take up the hammer dulcimer seriously, Pauline introduced me first to Shirley who was a teacher of the instrument, from a Chinese perspective. I spent over a year studying traditional Chinese and Asian folk songs and gradually became involved with the two ensembles, which were co-led with Betty. I also later came to teach at the Community Music Center of San Francisco where they both continue to be long time faculty members. Becoming part of their lives and community was another great chapter that originated with Pauline.

During those Bay Area years I also became better acquainted with the wider community of Deep Listeners, those who had studied the practice of Deep Listening through retreats, courses and workshops. In addition to events and gatherings, such as those at Theater Yugen, Pauline, through her foundation, The Pauline Oliveros Foundation, established a Deep Listening listserv that connected this growing international network, via the internet. Referred to variously as the “DeepL” or “Deep Sub List,” the list, in addition to spreading the word about Pauline’s activities, hosted an incredibly varied, vibrant and sustained discussion, spawning many friendships. At some point, after leaving the Bay Area, I lost track of the list, but I continue to maintain relationships with a number of people that I first encountered there. Throughout these years, as the internet was emerging, Pauline led the way, always becoming an early adopter and expert user of each new tool and platform, and always responding to emails. Her forward looking approach to technology was a quality that I would continue to marvel at in the years that would follow.

I eventually moved to New York in early 2001, returning to my east coast roots after ten years in California. Though my connection with Pauline was to that point confined to my life out west, it was no less significant upon my arrival in the City. I had no solid job offer or many contacts upon arrival, and Pauline helped connect me with a number of important people and organizations almost immediately. The first music place I visited – Pauline sent me – was Harvestworks, and a meeting with its Director Carol Parkinson, at 596 Broadway in SoHo. I had been aware of Harvestworks for some time, and had even recently applied for a residency. While there were no job openings or otherwise at that time, it was an exciting introduction to the Downtown music and arts community, and it would happen that, six years later, I would join the Harvestworks staff, and then a few more years later, become an Artist In Residence as well. All told, Harvestworks has been a crucial part of my life in New York, and I largely have Pauline to thank for that.

But back to 2001. More contacts would flow from Pauline, and more meetings and new friendships would follow. Soon she would connect me with Thomas Buckner, a prominent baritone performer, record producer and concert presenter who was then searching for a new Coordinator for his highly regarded Interpretations series at Merkin Concert Hall. With considerable good fortune, I got the job, and suddenly found myself somewhat embedded in the center of New York City’s musical avant-garde. Over the course of the ensuing six years, I met countless musicians and composers, attended untold numbers of concerts, and launched my own musical career within a vibrant and inspiring community. Although the series would eventually be scaled back and I would lose my job, my relationship with Tom and his network would continue. Through his label, Mutable Music, I would eventually release two CDs, and in 2007 receive a commission to write a new work for Tom. All told, it was a wonderfully fortuitous connection that helped shaped the course of my new life in New York, and again, I owe much of it to Pauline.

It was also significant that my first performance in New York following my move back east, was at Pauline’s Deep Listening Space in Kingston. At that time the Space was a fully functioning performance venue, recording studio, and the office of  the Foundation. Performing as a soloist on the hammer dulcimer I had the pleasure of sharing a bill with electronic musician Carl Stone on May 2, 2002. It was wonderful spring evening and a great start to a new chapter in my life. I performed two other times at the Deep Listening Space, one in collaboration with Loren Dempster, and the other in a trio with Miya Masaoka and JD Parran both in 2003 and always loved making the trip upstate.

There would be other stories like this in the years that would follow, but what I am most grateful for is the many opportunities I had to see Pauline and hear her perform over the last 15 years of her life. Some of the highlights include Deep Listening Band performances at La MaMa (2004), Roulette (2008), and Bard College (2008), numerous accordion performance at The Stone (With Miya Masaoka, 2005, solo 2009, with Susie Ibarra and Ione 2010), her William Schuman award concert at Miller Theater (2010), an 80th birthday celebration concert at Issue Project Room (2012), a performance of her text pieces by Ghost Ensemble at Eyebeam (2013) on the occasion of the publication of her Anthology of Text Scores, a solo performance at Roulette (2014), a solo performance and installation at the Whitney Museum as part of of the 2014 Biennial, and those are some of the ones that immediately come to mind!

Another memorable involving Pauline was a program I organized with Craig Shepard as part of the Music for Contemplation series. On May 2, 2015 a mixed ensemble of myself, Craig, Damon Loren Baker, Jen Baker, Shelley Burgon, Loren Dempster and Joshua Morris performed a program of her text scores at the Church of the Annunciation in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The program included Earth Ears, In Consideration of the Earth and From Unknown Silences, and the church’s resonant acoustics provided the perfect space for our simple and spacious realizations. Pauline and Ione attended the concert, and seeing them out there in the audience sitting peacefully, with eyes closed, listening with all their attention remains one of my most cherished memories of Pauline.

The last time I saw her was on October 18, 2016, a little over a month before she passed away. The occasion was a performance at National Sawdust, in Williamsburg, Brooklyn organized by the electroacoustic band The Blow, as part of their WOMANPRODUCER series. Following a pre-concert conversation between Pauline and the two members of The Blow, she performed a magical solo improvisation on her digital accordion. We spoke and exchanged hugs before the performance, and I remember being struck by the wonderful sparkly, silver baseball cap she wore. It seemed like an important gesture of celebration and playfulness. Ione and Gisela Gamper were also there, but oddly I didn’t know anyone else in the audience. I’m not sure there were many more New York performances by Pauline, if any, but suffice it to say that I am incredibly grateful that I was at that one.

Apart from all these specific memories, I think what I will most remember about Pauline was her generous spirit, her sense of humor, and the seriousness and warmth with which she spoke. She was a great artist, a leader, a visionary and a sage, and she will be greatly missed.

Dan Joseph, November 7, 2017



The first in a four-part series of essays I am writing throughout the month of November for NewMusicBox concerns what it means to be a mid-career composer:

Sleaford Mods


My review of Sleaford Mods recent NYC appearance in the Brooklyn Rail:

Reading List


Some recent reading on music:

Retromania, by Simon Reynolds (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2011)

An excellent, well researched exploration of the so-called "retroscape," our current era in popular music where everything is foremost a reference to the past. In it we learn about the profusion of reissues, rerecordings, reenactments, revivals, retrospectives, record collecting, and ask the question: Is originality dead? More essential reading by the author of the also excellent Rip It Up and Start Again: Postpunk 1978-1984. DEFINITELY READ THIS


Every Song Ever, by Ben Ratliff (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2016)

With the subtitle "Twenty ways to listen in an age of musical plenty," this book by the New York Times music critic offers a kind  of guide for listening in the age of the Cloud. Sort of a cross between Alex Ross's Listen to This and Leonard Bernstein's The Joy of Music, it defines 20 different qualities, or categories, in music – repetition, virtuosity, audio space, quiet etc. – and describes important artists and recordings that embody each quality. Each chapter includes a playlist, albeit often comprising rather esoteric recordings. Definitely an interesting and timely read, but I found the language and style somewhat pretentious and abstract.  MAYBE READ THIS


Absolutely on Music, by Haruki Murakami and Seiji Ozawa (Knopf, 2016)

A distillation of over two years worth of conversations about music between these two Japanese cultural icons. While readers of Murakami are well aware of his knowledge of jazz and popular music, it may come as a surprise, as it did for me, that he is also deeply invested in classical music. Their conversations center around Ozawa's career and recordings and serves if nothing else, as a introductory memoir of sorts. Their conversation also engages, at times deeply, specific canonical works and composers, such as Beethoven's Third Piano Concerto, Brahms First Symphony, and the music of Gustav Mahler. An enjoyable and informative read, though I found that Ozawa often came off as  pompous and self-congratulatory, which I suppose goes with the territory. MAYBE READ THIS


The Modern Lovers' The Modern Lovers, by Sean Maloney (Bloomsbury, 2017)

One of the newest titles in the excellent 33 1/3 series from Bloomsbury, this one covers the improbable story of what became, posthumously, one of the greatest American rock albums ever. Equal parts musicology and cultural history, the book traces the brief history of this early 70s Boston band within the broader context of all that was going on cultural in that city and in the country. I've read a number of books in this series, and this is by far one of the best, if not THE best so far. If you love this album as I do, DEFINITELY READ THIS.


Records Ruin the Landscape, by David Grubbs (Duke University Press, 2014)

Subtitled "John Cage, the Sixties, and Sound Recording," this book, which was also Grubbs's PhD thesis, takes as its starting point the paradox of Cage's well-known disdain for recordings, and the fact that he made many of them during his lifetime. The book looks ind depth at Cage and other contemporaneous artists whose work was also seemingly antithetical to recording, and explores how recordings influence the reception and transmission of their work in our current era. Though it gets overly abstract at times, this is a fascinating deep dive into the many facets recording and archiving, particularly in the context of avant-garde music. If you are seriously into experimental music, DEFINITELY READ THIS.


The Story of Crass, by George Berger (PM Press/Omnibus Press, 2008)

A nearly 300-page history of the legendary British anarchist punk band Crass. Tracing their emergence in the late 70s out of a communal living environment in Essex, north-east of London, known as Dial House, the book incorporates a great deal of interviews with images, commentary and analysis. A great insider account of one of the essential bands of the punk era, this is essential reading for all enthusiasts and scholars of anarchism, activism, DIY and punk rock. DEFINITELY READ THIS.



My review of Austra's late January appearance at Warsaw in Greenpoint, Brooklyn:

Pink Dots


My review of The Legendary Pink Dots at Knitting Factory Brooklyn 9/30/16:


Roarke Menzies


I wrote a piece about sound artist Roarke Menzies for the Fall 2016 issue of Musicworks Magazine. Read it in the print edition or online here:

Alvin Curran


“…and that’s where I went, almost as if it was a form of musical amnesia, where you not only allow yourself to get lost, but enjoy being lost.” My conversation with Alvin Curran in The Brooklyn Rail…

The Ex


My review of The Ex at WFMU's Monty Hall, in the Dec./Jan. issue of The Brooklyn Rail



My review of Low live at Music Hall of Williamsburg:

Wire Nears 40


My review of WIRE's performance this past June at Music Hall of Williamsburg appears in the July/August issue of the Brooklyn Rail:



Morpheus 2015


IMG_6738Today I received a box of newly printed copies of my 1987 tape music collection Morpheus that has been handsomely re-issued on CD for the first time in a re-mastered and hand-numbered edition of 200 by the Belgian label Forced Nostalgia. The 30 or so copies I received are my compensation for agreeing to allow Fré De Vos, the label's director, to re-publish this nearly 30-year old work. Though it's a bit of a questionable undertaking to release anything on CD at this moment in history, it's gratifying to have a reiteration of an early work, especially one which at the time I felt so strongly about. The discs however, look and sound great! Fré contacted me about this possibility nearly ten years ago, and for various reasons it has only now come to fruition. Though we have never met in person or even spoken on the telephone, I am very grateful to Fré for his interest and perseverance.

The recording is representative of the work I produced during the latter half of the 80s while I was immersed in the international cassette music underground, a period during which I self-released three full-length works on cassette, as well as a split tape (with Cyrnai) and contributed to numerous compilations. Those years were arguably the heyday of the cassette trading period, when a vast international network of homespun labels and distributors vigorously traded artifacts of every description among its artist-participants. The audio cassette naturally ruled the day, lending itself as it does to self-production. We all had our own dubbing decks (a dual cassette deck that facilitated copying tapes) and typically made our own covers and packaging, often making each copy unique in some way. Visits to my PO box in Adams Morgan (Washington, DC) were almost always thrilling for what might turn up – a box of tapes by other artists I ordered in trade for my own; letters and postcards from Japan, England, Tennessee, Switzerland, Austria, Seattle!  Unsolicited tapes, chain letters, fanzines, catalogs and other often un-categorizable miscellany, arriving sometimes daily.

It was a stimulating time, though also isolating in its own way. I was still living in DC then where I spent a number of years active in the local punk scene. Retiring from bands at 19 and having dropped out of two different universities, I was eagerly searching for a sustainable musical identity that didn't involve dysfunctional families, drug addictions, drunken brawls or broken eardrums. With my cassette four-track recorder and any instrument I could get my hands on, I dove in head first.

For several years I did little else apart from  supporting myself as a waiter and bartender, producing hours and hours of recorded works in what might be described as ambient-industrial, dark ambient, noise, new age or soundscape. This idiom, such as it was, contained equal parts Eno, Throbbing Gristle and Cage and had a great many adherents throughout the world. Some of those with whom I engaged in regular correspondance included Robert Rich, Jeff Grienke, TS Vickers, If Bwana and Zoviet France. Sharing our impressions and trading tapes created a sense of camaraderie and community, though it was largely an imagined one. This musical practice had little performative potential and little local presence, and though I did develop a regular live project at that time with the cellist Rogelio Maxwell, the world of homemade tape esoterica ultimately left me more alone with my music than I cared to be. By 1989 I abruptly dropped the whole enterprise and begin a period of formal composition studies that would, by 1991, take me to California to study at CalArts, and then on to a career as a more conventionally formal composer.

When I completed Morpheus I remember feeling completely satisfied, as though were I to never create another musical work, I would be ok with that. I had been struggling to find a voice for some time, and at that moment this was it. It was well received among friends as well as in the network through which it travelled. Having sold out of the first batch of 100 that I had mass-produced, I re-printed another 200, of which I still have a boxful. The covers were hand set and printed separately, a process directed by my friend Henry Adams (aka Warwick) who lived nearby at the time and worked in graphic design. All told, Morpheus was about as successful as I might have reasonably expected a self-produced cassette of dark and mournful subterranian soundscapes to be.

Which brings us to 2015. My musical practice today is not much closer to the mainstream than it was in 1987, but it has a lot more people in it and includes a far greater diversity of activities. I have traversed many different musical questions, communities and modes of productions in these years, and while I rarely look back to my former selves, I also don't renounce them. In recent years I have found many different ways in which my musical past informs my present, and that includes my industrial self which finds expression at times in my electroacoustic work for hammer dulcimer. Also recently, I have had the unexpected opportunity to reconnect with some of my contacts from this period, notably Al Margolis ("The Cassette Godfather") who currently runs a number of experimental new music labels including his own label Pogus, and Ken Montgomery founder of the famed East Village cassette music store and gallery The Generator. I have also re-connected, virtually at least, with Zoviet France, the amazing and enigmatic collective from Newcastle upon Tyne who for me represent the highest achievement of this particular branch of the underground family tree. I regularly tune in to their weekly one-hour radio program and podcast A Duck in a Tree that features music of this type, both current and historical, as well as a wonderful variety of field recordings made throughout the world. I am very happy to be plugged-in to this community again, and very happy to see Morpheus have a second life!

Order the CD here



This Thursday's Musical Ecologies concert by Chris Mannigan and Danny Tunick includes the premiere of my new piece Underground Suite. It was commissioned by this saxophone and percussion duo in 2013 and is part of a larger commissioning project they've undertaken over the last five years that also includes composers Drew Krause and Rich Woodson, both of whose commissioned works will be included on Thursday's program.

Underground Suite is now the second piece in a row I've written that's based on direct quotations of other music, the previous bieng last year's Satellite Canons. It's a relatively new direction for me, though much earlier in my musical life I explored various kinds of appropriation, all in the context of tape music in which I employed various kinds of primitive sampling.

But outside of my own work I have long had an interest in musical quotation, a practice which of course has a long history in various traditions. However, as recordings and sound manipulating technologies have proliferated, so have musical forms based on appropriation –  Pluderphonics, mashups, re-mixes and many other variations – all of which I have avidly followed. (A favorite is the Illegal Art Exhibit complilation that was given away for free at Stay Free!'s Illegal Art exhibition at CBGBs 313 Gallery in 2002).

My use of appropriation, however, has no political agenda. My reasons for borrowing other music has more to do with a growing sense that my musical practice is increasingly becominging a form of musicology. The broader conditions that have brought about the mashups etc. are only intensifying, and as an engaged participant, fan, student and presenter, it seems that the incredible abundance of music, recorded and otherwise, in our midst today calls for a different kind of musical practice that takes into account more directly all the listening we are all doing.

In my case I've been listening to a lot of "underground' music. That is where I come from – the underground, though it's not so easy to say what excactly that is. But my piece, with it's specific collection of quotations (see below) offers one vision of a musical underground. I'm of course a big fan of all these artists and tracks and it was fun and instructive to transcribe them all (and many others I did not ultimately use) and try to figure out a way to make a new piece out of them.

And I've always been attracted to the idea of a suite. In this case I've constructed one in five movements that includes three distinctly tune-based movements (I, II and V) separated by two "etudes" based largely on simple non-quoted rhythmic material. This process has certainly had its challenges, and while I'm not totally satisfied with the resulting work, I think it ultimately works. Come hear for yourself, tomorrow night (Thursday March 12th, 2015)!





His Name is Alive My life as a music person is punctuated by periodic grand epiphanies (grand on a personal level that is), where seemingly out of nowhere a set of connections are suddenly made that bring into focus a particular artist or musical project in a way previously unseen. While I have smaller such epiphanies nearly on a daily basis, these larger episodes develop in the background, over many months or years before suddenly clicking together in an audio-chemical flash. The Detroit-based band His Name is Alive is the most recent artist to capture my attention in this way, culminating in my checking out a live set last Tuesday at Rough Trade NYC in Brooklyn [February 10, 2015].

I'm not sure I ever heard anything by His Name is Alive before some time last year when, at a local branch of the Housing Works thrift store chain, I found a copy of their 2nd CD Home is in Your Head  for $1 (the things I find at that thrift store is perhaps a topic for another post). I had become curious about the band after reading Facing the Other Way: The Story of 4AD a recently published book by Martin Aston that recounts the entire history of that famed record label. Throughout the early to mid-eighties I was somewhat of a 4AD fanatic, devouring pretty much everything I could find on the label.  To this day I still own a significant portion of the catalog up until about 1987, including many rare 7" singles, most of the essential LPs and EPs and a few special edition rarities. But my fascination with the label began to wane as my general musical interests went in new directions, coincidentally right around the time that 4AD signed its first American bands.  I pretty much lost track of the label and a good deal of other alternative music throughout the 90s as I focussed on my studies and eventual career in new music only occasionally becoming interested in something that connected with my teenage years, most of which I spent as a musician in the DC punk scene of the 80s.

Things began to change however, sometime after moving to New York (May 2001). With my student days long behind me I gradually began to re-connect with my rock and alternative roots, rekindling old friendships, checking out the occasional show, and buying a CD here and there – basically reclaiming that part of my self. At some point in the mid aughts 4AD started to find its way back on my radar. By the middle of the decade it became apparent that a number of bands I had recently become interested in were now on the label's roster – Deerhunter, Stereolab, Gang Gang Dance, Blonde Redhead and the then Brooklyn it band TV on the Radio among them. While I was vaguely aware of 4AD's trials and tribulations over the years and the fact that original mastermind Ivo had long ago sold it, it seemed then that the label had somehow succeded in reinventing itself in its own original image. I've been following again ever since (though I can't say I'm very excited about many of the recent signings). When I discovered a slightly damaged copy of the aforementioned book [Facing the Other Way: The Story of 4AD] on the shelves at The Strand bookstore for $6 I snapped it up and promptly devoured all 650 pages within the week.

Which brings us back to His Name is Alive. The band's name as well as that of it's creator Warren Defever comes up again and again in Facing the Other Way, and as I learned what an important part it played for the label throughout the 90s as well as the outsized significance it apparently held for Ivo, it piqued my interest more than any other band I was not yet familiar with that the book discussed . (A few other interesting bands I also learned about for the first time reading this book, some of whom were never on 4AD but might have been, Low for example). Over the last year I found their first two CDs Livonia, and Home is in Your Head and their fourth, Stars on E.S.P. each for $1 also at the Housing Works thrift store. From the start I could hear the kinship with old-school (or maybe "late early") 4AD, at least with the first two records. Had I heard them in 1985 I would have been instantly hooked, and even now I found them beautifully bewitching. The enigmatic forms, textures and moods set amid unpredictably fluid tempos, and the predominance of haunting and beautiful female voices put them very much in line with earlier 4AD staples Cocteau Twins, Dead Can Dance and the This Mortal Coil franchise….but with a few interesting twists. Importantly, I was surprised that this music came from the USA. Yes, 4AD began working with American bands in the late 80s, but those, and many to follow were more conventional, albeit great, rock bands, without much of the ethereal, existential, gothic-esque signature of the core European artists of the label.  And then, as I began getting to know the later Stars on E.S.P. album (this happened only a few months ago) I discovered that there is so much more to His Name is Alive than 4AD could ever hope to contain.

His Name is Alive is not a band per se, though it seems to periodically become one, and very convincingly so. It's really a studio project (of Warren Defever’s). The records are all very sophisticated studio efforts that endlessly explore unique sounds, forms and juxtapositions, often exploring a musical idea in multiple versions, and as with much of today's bedroom pop, it has to be reverse-engineered for the live setting. The recording is the original, and live is the copy. With the recent concert I attended, as well as time spent exploring the extensive history to be found on YouTube as a reference, when His Name is Alive goes live, it works, both as a convincing evocation of the original recorded work, but also as an autonomous interpretation. In any case, this is increasingly how things work in today's musical ecosystem. In this way, it seems His Name is Alive was somewhat ahead of the curve, by a decade at least.

But the things that really stand out for me, what makes His Name is Alive unique and compelling, are really three qualities.  The first is the ever-present sense of restless experimentation. No two songs or vignettes are alike, each one a unique proposal of what a piece of music can or might be, both in the instrumentation (which is almost always interesting and unconventional) and in the actual sounds. Each track is a soundworld unto itself.  The second is a rich underlying musicality that grounds even the most abstract and minimal pieces, a musicality rooted it seems, in acoustic folk and roots music. There are even some tunes worthy of being considered part of the “Great American Songbook,” namely the wonderful This World is Not My Home triptych that frames the entire Stars on E.S.P. album. And lastly, there is a magical sensibility that pervades His Name is Alive, a mix of childlike wonder, nature spirits and folk mysticism, and maybe a little LSD! It’s similar to the kind of magic that characterized some of the classic 4AD artists, but that was arguably a much darker magic. His Name is Alive has its darkness, but there’s a greater joy and wonder here, and lot of good tunes. I'm looking forward to getting to know the rest of the catalog.

Last Tuesday at Rough Trade the band played through the majority of its newest album Tecuciztecatl, a self-described “rock opera depicting an epic struggle between identical twins, reflective in nature, and mirrored in twin science, secret language, and mythology.” It would seem to be a radically new direction for the group, sounding more like some kind of classic 70s Rust Belt psych-rock. About a similar live set a few days later one DC-area tweeter quipped  “@hisnameisalive was kinda in medieval heavy-psych mode tonight @blackcatdc, damn.” I think that nails it, damn. But is it really that new a direction? As with many of the great rock visionaries – think Bowie, Eno, Reed, Zappa (and maybe Ariel Pink?) – whatever the setting or concept or sound world they happen to be inhabiting at any given time, their underlying vision and personality always comes through. Suffice it to say, Tecuciztecatl is an excellent record!
P.S. Oh, and who's ever heard of the Detroit band Viv Akauldren? Defever mentions them in YouTube interview…I saw them at DC Space in the 80s, maybe twice – what a cool band, I had totally forgotten!



My piece on professional courtesy published on


Satellite Canons


Satellite Canons for brass sextet, 2014

Written specifically for this Music for Contemplation concert (11/1/14) featuring Affinity Brass, Satellite Canons is a six-part un-coordinated, un-conducted canon. Each part is played independently of one another, with each player using a silent metronome set to a unique tempo. The material for each player is simple and repetitive, and in concept and design the work is part of an ongoing series of works I call Periodicity Pieces. The idea behind these pieces is to set in motion a number of un-related cycles of repetition at very slow tempos and see what happens. While I have, through trial and success, arrived at what I feel is a satisfying composition using these simple phrases and tempos, this realization could be considered merely as an “arrangement,” with many other versions possible that would retain the underlying idea and identity of the piece.

What gives the work it’s distinctive identity in whatever arrangement, is the particular pitches, which are drawn form the first three bars of Lou Reed’s Satellite of Love from his 1972 album Transformer. Over the last several years I’ve been experiencing quite an immersion in the music of Lou Reed, and at the time of his death last year was particularly in the grip of Transformer, with a particular fondness for Satellite. It also happens that in my recent compositions I’ve been exploring the use of quotations as a primary element, so when the opportunity to write this work for brass came up, also last year, it seemed an excellent opportunity to work more in this way. It didn’t take me long to figure out what to quote – not only is it an obvious tribute to this important and quintessentially New York artist, it’s also a vehicle for contemplation, of life, death, time, New York City, music history, brass instruments, counterpoint, chords, intervals, timbre, breath…

But it’s also, for me at least, an opportunity to contemplate the making of music in a church, a setting I have long been ambivalent about, and often outright resisted. My religio-spritual identity, like many Americans, has always been fairly confused, and if I identify with anything, it’s my Jewish heritage. But even with that limited sense of identification, I have never felt comfortable in places of worship, despite their obvious charms. In this way, contemplating Lou Reed in a church in Williamsburg, Brooklyn seems an appropriate way for me to explore this extra-musical issue in my life.

And to add one additional layer:  Both the generously spacious layout of the Church of the Annunciation as well as the idea of the satellite as expressed in both the quotation and the cyclical nature of my musical lines, suggested a circular arrangement of the performers for tonight’s performance. In this way the moving of the musical lines around the room and their entrances and exits, suggest a group of satellites moving around the earth, each on their own individual path, and each sending their own signal of love…or something like that!

80s DC


WMUC DC Set 1986 by Danjoseph on Mixcloud


During the summer of 1986 I hosted a weekly radio show on WMUC, the radio station of the University of Maryland, College Park.  I wasn't a student there, but my friend Dave McDuff was the station manager and during the summer there was a chronic shortage of DJs. At the time I was living at 14th and Church Streets in NW Washington, DC and working at the nightclub/bar/restaurant/art gallery DC Space. Having spent the early 80s playing in a string of local bands including 9353, Crippled Pilgrims and Troubled Gardens, I was very much still in the thick of the DC music scene.

I recorded most of my radio programs on an in-studio cassette deck and I recently discovered several of these cassettes.  This set of DC-area bands was somewhat of an anomaly, as most of my sets were dominated by the British and European post-punk, goth and industrial groups (4AD, Laylah, Les Disques du Crepescule etc.) I was then obsessed with. But all of these tracks are by bands I had a personal connection to (with the exception of Jad Fair), and all were active at that time. I played with some of these musicians in other projects, and all of them I heard live many times. Some are barely known today and I assume most of the tracks are out of print, but these were all great bands and offer a more or less representative slice of the DC scene at that time. Many of these records I no longer own (whoops!), so I'm completely thrilled to have this time capsule!

A shout out to Sharon, Colin, Alex, Roger and Charles of Bloody Mannequin Orchestra, to Joey and Malcolm of Grand Mal, to Monica, Eugene, Danny and Norman of Madhouse, my then bandmates Jason, Bruce and Vance (RIP) of 9353 and Jay, Scott and Mtich of Crippled Pilgrims, to Jeff, Dante, Steve and Mark of Grey Matter, to Alec, Chris and Mike of Faith, and lastly to the recently departed Dave Brockie whose early comedic-punk trio Death Piggy still stands as one of my all-time favorite bands of the region and period.

More about the DC days here:

Silent Music


While collecting some writing samples for a proposal for a new article, I happened on this piece I wrote nearly two years ago that remains unpublished. I had nearly forgotten about it, but it contains some lingering questions that come up again from time to time as the discourse around silent music continues to grow. Feel free to offer your comments below!:

Listening To Silent Music (March 2012)

Among the many innovative and revolutionary ideas put forward by John Cage, our most influential musical thinker (currently in his 100th year), the use of silence as a musical material has had perhaps the most significant impact on current practices. With the composition 4’ 33’ (1952) and later works, a new understanding of music, sound and consciousness was reached, the implications of which are continuing to unfold through many varied strands.  In this emergent field of so-called Silent Music, which can take the form of a notated work, an improvisation, electronic or electroacoustic sound art, a theoretical inquiry or a set of prose instructions, silence, as both an idea and a material becomes the central focus.  Much as Schoenberg liberated the dissonance, and in doing so set in motion the atonal revolution,  Cage liberated silence, and in doing so pointed the way to the democratization of music.

Tiny music, lower-case sound, minimal acoustic music, minor musics, non-cochlear sound  – these are some of its guises. With 4’ 33” Cage wanted the focus to be on the sounds around us, to the “music” that surrounds us.  Later, with her Sonic Meditations and her practice of Deep Listening™, Pauline Oliveros turned silence inside out, teaching us to also listen to our own silence, the sound of our inner world.  With the composers of the Wandelwieser Group, a transnational collective of composers that share an intense focus on the structural potential of silence, silence is decidedly a material, for use in a composition, considered and measured in varying proportions to a range other sonic materials, instrumental and otherwise. For an international community of improvising musicians, sound artists and acoustical ecologicians, silence is more a political statement, a form of humility and passive resistance.

To listen to silent music is a complex act that for some can be intolerable, for silence is not what we expect to encounter at a concert or when we listen to a record.  But silence is also an opportunity, an invitation, an opening, a catalyst.  Imagine you are comfortably seated in a concert hall or club among a diverse group of fellow concert goers.  The musicians you have come to hear take the stage and begin to play, offering what seems to be a familiar enough sounding work of contemporary music; a few pitches, a discernable rhythm, a distinct tone or an interesting electronic sound – yes, this sounds like music. But suddenly and without warning a remarkable thing happens:  SILENCE.  In some such pieces, a silence of this type might last ten minutes or more, before something resembling familiar music returns, if it returns at all. Whether you are outraged or pleased by this dramatic imposition on your otherwise very reasonable expectations, something interesting, even transformative has happened, and usually this will be good.

To  share an experience in public with a group of people, such as at a concert, has it’s own magic of social connection and interaction.  To share a silence in such a context is a more deeply intimate experience, and every bit as magical and interactive.  A concert of silent music can be like a religious experience, a shared observance, like a prayer.  Not surprisingly, in an early description of his still gestating “silent piece”, Cage referred to it as Silent Prayer.  It has also been noted that a related work of visual art that was to influence the creation of 4’ 33”, Robert Rauschenberg’s white paintings, also contained a kind of religious impetus.  Cage is also well-known to have been influenced by the more contemplative varieties of eastern thought, most notably Zen Buddhism, and no silent music can be completely removed from some connection to oriental philosophy. 

But there is more to silent music than religiosity and contemplation.  To make of silence a creative work, and even a performance, is to empower the audience to share in the work’s realization.  For when silence descends in a work of art, the listener immediately becomes an active participant on an entirely different plane than when the music is without silence, when it is fully supplied by the performer or composer.  Silent music invites participation, whether with thoughts, ideas, sounds or visions; listening to silent music is a form of composition. Composers I know have spoken of listening to music that makes them hear music of their own invention, that inspires composition, while listening to music.  Silent music takes this phenomenon to a new height, for not only are we hearing the “music” around us (Cage) and the sounds of our inner world (Oliveros), we are also composing our own music while listening to silent music, and this represents a fully democratized music.

But there can also be a darker side to silent music, for silence is not always healthy or welcome.  It is perhaps not surprising for example, that among the known practitioners of silent music there are few women, for why would women who have for so long been heard less in serious music than their male counterparts want to practice silence in their work?  Whatever the sex of the composer, to choose silence, to remain silent, cannot always be good.  Perhaps in the increasingly controlled, media-dominated public sphere we are practicing a form of self-censorship when we compose silent music, unconsciously internalizing the very same corporate-controlled agenda we so consciously resist.

Silence can also be an expression of exhaustion.  Perhaps Cage felt this to some degree in 1952, but it wasn’t much later that the wider musical culture clearly reached exhaustion, as the hyper expansion and invention of the modern and post-war eras overwhelmed the very creators that drove it and begat a crisis. Many a music student from, say 1975 and on must have felt this, at least to some degree. With so many choices, languages, styles and technologies available, a period of retrenchment took hold. In this context silence is a form of negation and rejection, a way of saying no.  

But much as someone in crisis may seek refuge and healing in a monastery or hermitage, so has music sought a silent rebirth. Thus silence can be a new beginning, a tabula rasa. If, as has been suggested by Attali in his classic work of music history, Noise,  music is prophetic, is a herald, what does the emergence of a silent music portend?  It is both frightening and exciting to imagine our musical future, and some would no doubt suggest that silent music represents the end of music, and this would not be unreasonable.  But to look, and listen, to the wider world of music today is to witness a veritable explosion of music, often traveling at the speed of light through the infinite global networks and from all corners of the planet. It would seem in this context then, that music is becoming fully liberated and democratized, that silence has heralded a roar!

Ten Years Alive


On Ten Years Alive and The Afterlife…

There is nowhere in New York City that I feel more at home as an artist than Issue Project Room, and it's great pleasure that I bring my ensemble to the new Issue space today for an encore performance of Tonalization (for the afterlife). The work is dedicated to Issue's visionary founder Suzanne Fiol who's sudden and tragic demise unfolded during the months I was composing the work.  It was eventually premiered at the Old American Can Factory space in March 2010, six months after her passing and performed a second time in February of 2011.

Suzanne was a strong supporter of my music, as she was for so many of us, and she invited the ensemble to perform at each of the previous spaces – East 6th Street in April 2005, and the Carroll St. silo June 2006.  Taken as a whole the Issue performances have been far and away the most memorable of all Dan Joseph Ensemble concerts, and it is in large measure due to her open-minded and nurturing spirit that the ensemble has continued to devlelop.

And so it is that Issue Project Room continues to develop, following her vision and keeping alive the flame she ignited, and now celebrating Ten Years!  Thank you Suzanne and thank you Issue for being a home to those of us who need you. Today I pay tribute to the past while also looking ahead to the future, to Suzanne's "afterlife" on the Infinite Plain."   ♡ ∞

Tonalization notes

Images from past Issue performances by Chris Woltmann, Kevin Ryan and anonymous.

Borah Bergman

Borah Bergman

Borah Bergman at home in New York City

Last week I attended a belated memorial service for the late Borah Bergman who died last October at the age of 85. Led by violinist Jason Kao Hwang who organized the event, many friends, colleagues and family members gathered at Saint Peter’s Church on Lexington Avenue to pay tribute, both through musical performances and speeches, some addressing the gathered remotely via Skype. I knew Borah for only the last eleven years, so it was fascinating, and illuminating, to learn more from the many speakers who knew him through all the stages of his life.

My first encounter with Borah was via the telephone. I had moved to New York City, from California, only a few months earlier and was on my second day of a new job working for Thomas Buckner as the Coordinator of his acclaimed new music series Interpretations. While every conversation I ever had with Borah was notable, this one was particularly notable, not only because it was our first, but for the fact that this day happened to be September 11, 2001. Having emerged from the subway at 28th and Broadway only minutes after the first plane hit, I spent the rest of the day in the Mutable Music office at 109 West 27th Street with my colleague Gladys Serrano trying, like everyone else in the city and the world, to figure out what was happening and what we should do. Thus it was amidst the terror, chaos and confusion of that morning that Borah, who was scheduled to perform on the series in the upcoming season, called from his north-facing studio apartment on West 73rd Street to check-in one some details about his concert.

I don’t recall the exact time of the call, but I think it was at least two hours after the crisis began. I had been on and off the phone with numerous friends and family members updating them on our situation, and when Borah called it took me a minute or two to understand that he was actually unaware of what was happening. He was asking me questions about the piano at Merkin Hall (I think) and other ordinary details about his upcoming concert, and when I interrupted him to explain what was going on, he thought I was kidding. It didn’t take long for him to get it though, and in a voice suddenly deadly serious, he told me he was turning on his TV and abruptly hung up.

Thus, Borah and I were now acquainted. In the months and years that followed we became friends. In addition to assisting him with his concert that season (he did perform solo as scheduled on January 10, 2002), I enjoyed many casual phone conversations in the office about various things musical and otherwise, as he, like many other musicians in Tom’s circle, often called in about various things. At some point I started helping him with his email and computer issues, often over the phone, but increasingly at his apartment where I would sometimes visit after work. This aspect of our relationship continued steadily throughout my tenure at Mutable Music which ended in 2007 and became less frequent after that. As other friends know, computers were not easy for him, but I was able to help him manage his email and documents, sometimes simply just typing and sending messages that had been pending for weeks if not months. In one instance, while helping him with his press materials, he explained that the year commonly printed as his birth year was in fact incorrect, and he sent me to the library in search of an earlier version of The New Grove Dictionary of Jazz that, in addition to being a well-written and accurate bio, listed his correct date of birth. In any case, he was always happy and appreciative for the help and, while I was ostensibly there to help him work, he always played the piano, and we would talk about music and musicians, sometimes scandalously!

At some point, I think fairly early on, he took an interest in my music and I gave him a copy of what at that time was my only CD. It was a duo recording titled trancepatterns that I made in 2000 with saxophonist John Ingle in California. The music was as close to jazz or creative music that I had ever come in my own work and Borah liked it. He was very complimentary, particularly about the rhythmic aspect of the music, something I was largely responsible for as the hammer dulcimer half of the duo, a role that was comparable to being the drummer of the group. I had indeed been a drummer as a teenager and rhythm continued to be my focus, and it was gratifying that Borah, an artist who possessed an astounding command of the rhythmic domain, appreciated this quality in my music. Over these years I attended as many of his concerts as I could, though I can’t say that there were many. I remember at least one other as part of the Interpretations series and just a handful of others, at The Stone for example, and what I believe was has last concert in New York, at the Abrons Arts Center as part of the Vision Festival in 2010. I loved hearing him play. But he also attended some of my concerts. The one I remember most was a solo concert I did at the Cornelia Street Café as part of Frank J. Oteri’s “20th Century Schizoid Music” series that took place there one Monday every month. This was late April 2008, a beautiful spring night and he came with Tom Buckner, and while this was a memorable evening in a number of ways, it was a particular thrill for me to see the two of them in that tiny basement concert space enjoying dinner together while listening to me.

At some point he began suggesting that we play together, even do a concert sometime, and while I was concerned with how our sounds might mesh, I nonetheless expressed my enthusiasm. We continued to talk about it over some weeks and eventually had a tentative plan for a concert that might include bassist Adam Lane who was a mutual friend, but for some reason that didn’t happen. I also began a conversation with Issue Project Room about hosting him in some configuration, and while they were definitely interested, this too never materialized. But we did get together to play at his apartment, twice, the last time on March 4, 2010 when the picture above was taken. I also recorded these jams, something musicians do routinely, but I think my motivation had more to do with knowing that I would probably not be seeing him for much longer and I wanted to have some record of our friendship. Our playing together had it’s moments and it could quite possibly have developed into something, but we never had the opportunity to continue.

It was about this time that I learned from Gladys that Borah had moved to Massachusetts. Things had been unraveling for some time and it had been clear that something was going to change, so it was not a surprise. Not long after that, Borah came down from Massachusetts to play what I assume was that last New York concert, at Abrons. It was a wonderfully moving and contemplative set played to a very appreciative audience that concluded in a long standing ovation. While he played at times in his usual attacking style, the set consisted mostly of his songs and meditations, the former he had composed earlier in his career (I think) while the latter where characteristic of his recent recordings for Tzadik. The one piece I remember most was a song called Through a Green Wood, a simple haunting chord progression that he ornamented ever so sparsely. Greeting him backstage afterward I asked if I could see the score, a one-page hand-written lead sheet with only the barest of notes and chord symbols. In his hands at the piano earlier the piece spoke to me in a profound way of something deep in Borah’s inner world, and it remains the most enduring memory I have of him and his music. Rest in Peace Borah.



My response to Daniel Asia's mean-spirited Huffington Post commentary on John Cage published in



Gen X


My piece on Generation X composers and their relative absence published by



Musical Ecologies


[This post was written in advance of a one-off concert at the Old Stone House March 10, 2012 and is the first time I contemplated the idea of Musical Ecologies which would later become the name of a monthly series that continues today, also at the Old Stone House]

I am looking very forward to the concert this Saturday with Glass Bees, Ranjit Bahtnagar and Andrea Williams. It's an event that has come about more or less spontaneously, if not entirely by accident.  But a series of happy accidents to be sure, and the result of the interaction of multiple threads. As such, it makes for an excellent starting point to my new blog:  Musical Ecologies.  What are musical ecologies?  For me they can include, musical communities and lineages, geographies of sound, families of instruments, tools, and media, and musical economies.  These are the ideas I will explore here, and I have been working up to this for a while, writing short prose pieces here and there, in each one trying to understand why I am so crazy about a piece or artist or sound, and how any of it could have possibly come about.

But back to the concert Saturday.  Andrea is the one who initiated this  and it is part of a string of events she is doing while visiting from the Bay Area. It's a recurrence of a prior collaboration between her and Glass Bees that, in at least one instance also included Ranjit.  That event took place at Barbes (also in Park Slope) and by chance I was in the audience.  It was a fun event and, if I am not mistaken, was occasioned by a previous "Instrument-A-Day" project of Ranjit's.  I think some NPR program covered it.  And since Andrea and I recently enjoyed a successful collaboration in Sausalito, she invited me to join them.  That I was able to book the event at the Old Stone House is a result of both my neighborhood relationship to the organization as well as my wife Claudia's employment there as the Garden Educator. I have performed at the House several times and the space is perfect for small familial gatherings.

Although I have barely met Ranjit, I have enjoyed encountering his work a number of times. Most recently I marveled at his large-scale scans of produce and other finds from the Grand Army Plaza Farmer's Market that were exhibited at the Central Branch of the Brooklyn Public Library.  Adding to that my familiarity with his Instrument-A-Day project, in past incarnations as well as the current iteration, and I have developed a very favorable impression of him as a fascinating and diversely creative individual.  I believe he also lives in Park Slope. And the Glass Bees I have also heard more than once and find their experimental approach to sound exciting and refreshing.  Suffice it to say I am happy to be part of this.

Tom Johnson


Tom Johnson was happy to be in New York last night. The occasion was his first performance at Experimental Intermedia since just before he left New York, in 1983, for Paris where he has lived ever since. His happiness was attributable to, as he explained, a recent improvement in his relations with the United Sates as affirmed by an uptick in invitations to speak and perform his work stateside, and a renewed sense of pride of being an American in the era of Obama. As a major figure in the Downtown minimal music movement since its inception, a movement nurtured in no small measure inside these same four walls of XI, there was a sense of triumphant return. Appearing on this night by himself, he mixed solo text-based performances with recorded excerpts of recent works and recordings, coloring the evening with stories and anecdotes about his work and personal history.  As such the evening took the form of an informal lecture-demo with an emphasis on oral history. He began with a live performance of Music and Questions, a radio piece composed in 1988 that methodically proceeds through the 120 possible permutations of five notes, which he played on five tuned bowls, asking a self-reflexive question after each phrase. As a typical Johnsonian systematic process piece, the experience was somewhere between a math exam and a political address. It most certainly would have made for intriguing  radio. What followed where several recorded examples: of a recent string quartet, an ensemble arrangement of his 1982 Rational Melodies and a new arrangement of Organ and Silence (2002) for solo piano. Johnson concluded with a very entertaining reading of his ingenious spoken work Lecture with Repetition wherein the speaker (Johnson) begins by repeating each line of the piece three times. As he moves through this prepared text that is itself an explanation of the piece (self-reflexive again), these statements begin to invite audience participation by for example, proposing that an audience member "may ask me to stop," or to repeat "more." Before too long the audience was driving the piece by asking for "more" or to "stop." There was much cheering and laughter. It was a lot of fun……

Object Collection


Last night I attended a concert of new works by Travis Just performed by his ensemble, Object Collection at the Issue Project Room. Based in Brooklyn, Just is an experimental composer in the Cageian tradition known for mixed media music-theater works, often in collaboration with the writer/director Kara Feely. The first half was dominated by two rather long table-top guitar quartets that had the performers striking the amplified guitars with marimba mallets, applying e-bows to the strings, and other non-traditional playing techniques. The score in both cases was proportional and much cueing was done by the composer. While there were some exciting sounds occasionally, the works suffered from a lack of organization and form. The performers also seemed somewhat removed from the sounds they were making.

Separating the quartets on the first half was a far more interesting mixed quartet of percussion, piano, guitar and "objects,' the latter including, as I later discovered, a Moog synthesizer. The work had a much stronger sense of form and space, and the sounds were a lot of fun, particularly those coming from the Moog (notably a persistent single-note tremolo effect that added a zany otherworldliness). This piece was far too short in context, and frankly I almost left at intermission.

But the second half came quickly, and it was definitely worth staying for. The remaining piece, Everybody's Everyone, an apparent reference the the Cage/Joyce mantra "Here Comes Everyone," brought to life the "object collection" theme, as the piece used for its sound material a large collection of objects tethered to long strings all stretched out over a large section of the venue's floor. The objects included mostly non-music related things – rocks, RAM chips, trophies, crumpled plastic bags, and various other miscellaneous objects from everyday life. Thus, the actual performance consisted of the four performers slowly, and with no apparent coordination as an ensemble, dragging the objects from one end of the floor to the other as they reeled in the strings to which they were tethered.

Lasting for roughly twenty minutes, the piece was as much theater as it was sound. The sounds in fact where far less interesting than they might have been. They were very quiet and largely indistinguishable from one another. Some light amplification might have opened up some interesting sound worlds, and the performers actually made more sound unintentionally (I presume) with the movements of their feet, which I found distracting. I might have had the group wear soft padded kung-fu slippers from Chinatown – they always work for me when I perform quiet music. Nonetheless, Everybody's Everyone was enjoyable as a kind of performance art, a visual process piece as it where.

I also still have the image of the grid-like arrangement of the tethered objects before they were rearranged in the course of the performance, suitable for a standalone gallery installation. As an added visual detail, the strings also had attached to them what appeared to be strategically positioned colored tapes which I assumed had something to do with the timing of the performer's dragging of the strings which often stopped and started when each player arrived at a sequence of the colored tapes in the course of their reeling in the strings. Overall, it evoked for me the detritus of a fisherman, a collection of flotsam brought to land with pieces of the netting still intact. Fun stuff….

Plastic Ono Band


Recently I have been obsessed with Yoko Ono and her Plastic Ono Band. I was of course already aware of Ono and the Plastic Ono Band project for years and even own one of the early albums. But I never took any of it seriously. Not until earlier this week when, on the occasion of the group's two concerts at BAM, WFMU's Brian Turner dedicated a big chunk of his program to the Plastic Ono Band, part of which included a recent interview with Yoko. Turner played a number of tracks for the newest album "Between My Head and the Sky" and, to put it simply, something clicked.

This sort of thing happens to me periodically – the sudden "discovery" of something that has been in my midst – and I am grateful when it does. The discovery of Ono's playful and quirky silliness, her willingness to sound ridiculous (to some), and her overall positive message charms me. And the vocal sounds she comes up with! Growls, purrs, clicks, howls etc., I am sure these have been described better elsewhere… all makes me laugh with joy.

I later downloaded the aforementioned album and I love it. Working with an ad hoc band of downtown freelancers under the direction of her son Sean Lennon, the album has the feel of an improv jam band, with a measure of funk and post-punk. My favorite track by far is actually a "house" dance number called "The Sun is Down." It's a great groove and Ono is in fine form riffing on the sun, the moon – "where the stars?" – and her mirror (she doesn't need it anymore; she's gonna throw it in the river). Definitely check this one out…..


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