High Zero X.... Wednesday

[Thursday] [Saturday Matinee]

This weekend is the tenth anniversary of one of the most exciting and unique musical events in the world, and by that measure that makes it one of the best reasons to live near Baltimore. It is the High Zero Festival of Experimental Improvised Music.

So, here's the rundown. For one extended weekend in September a group of several dozen musicians from near and far assemble to play sets of completely improvised music. The performers, their disciplines and their aesthetics all vary greatly. These concerts take place every night, plus a special matinee show on Saturday. But that's not all; the weekend also includes an opening night event with special performances; several scheduled talks, lectures and master classes by the musicians at local colleges and other organizations; and finally the highly radical and often dangerous High Jinx, which speaks for itself. By the way, the whole thing is produced by the Red Room Collective, who work very hard to prove that Baltimore is among the most vibrant cities in the world for new music.

So that's the gist of it. I wish I had posted all that before hand, so that I could just get right to the recap of the first night. Fortunately, we can get to that presently.................

I arrived late, because I couldn't find my earplugs. These are special, high-end earplugs that are designed to reduce all frequencies relatively evenly, so that the sound quality is not compromised. I usually bring them to concerts (as a piano tuner, protection is critical), and I learned last year that the sounds at High Zero are just as threatening. Anyway, I didn't find them, and I was running late. The low point of the evening was shelling out $11 for parking, because I didn't have the luxury of searching for a spot on the street.

Upstairs in the Theatre Project, all manner of so-called "humans" were mingling. Joy and contentment was in the air. This is where you go to be yourself, but only once a year.

The theatre is small and stubborn, all black with steeply tiered seats. I like to sit in the second row... close, but not too close. You never really know.

The show began, as usual, with a solo set. Tom Boram is half of Baltimore's experimental electronic duo Leprechaun Catering. He is older than he looks, with shaggy black hair and beard (with a pinch of pepper), and he wore a red-and-black ensemble with a tailcoat. His listed instruments were "synthesizer, voice", and neither were played. Boram began with a soft, largo click. He began to tap dance (yes, he was wearing tap shoes). He hopped sprightly around the stage, then crossed in front of his setup, revealing that mics had been planted in the area to catch the taps, transfer them to his ranks of circuit patches where they would be processed with effects. It became a rich melody of acoustic dance and digital glitch. He soon settled down to an upright studio piano, opened to reveal how the strings had been prepared. This also ran through his rig and treated with effects, further exponentially removing the original piano tone. Notes knocked, swooped, yelped. Balloons were taped to the top lid of the piano, and Boram would occasionally grab a pin and attack, bursting several in one swipe.
It was over all too quickly: that's my only complaint. This was the perfect way to begin the festival weekend, with something even veterans could not expect.

Boram's setup was struck, and Group One began without intermission. It was a pretty good performance, but never quite took off. Pedal steel guitarist Susan Alcorn had some unique ideas, but did very little beyond soft textural contributions. Canadian Magali Babin played "amplified metal", but the subtleties were mostly lost among her peers. Rose Hammer Burt was a more traditional free improviser on baritone and soprano saxes, which actually came as a refreshing change of pace. Robert van Heumann, from Amsterdam, was the most interesting performer, but I had philosophical reservations about it. His tools were a laptop, small mixing boards and an adapted joystick. His modus operandi was to take the sounds produced by the other musicians (he must've been patched into the soundboard), process them and replay them. It was always a surprise to hear a quick flurry of sax notes, then a second later hear that same flurry, distorted or echoed or shifted in pitch. It was live, improvised sampling; it was meta-improv. But is that OK? After all, he is simply taking the ideas that the others had already stated and putting it in his own voice. I suppose that's pretty much the same argument against sampling in general, but for some reason it only began to bother me in the moment. I suppose part of the problem was that it reminded me of a bratty kid, repeating what you said back to you in a whiny, mocking voice, his face a scrunched with resentment.

Group Two took the stage after an intermission, and proceeded to drag the evening down further. All three musicians did a respectable job. Guitarist Carson Gerhart indulged in several homemade effects pedals and other instruments. Electronicist Michael Muniak (boyfriend of a friend of a friend), sat in the middle, arrayed with devices that toiled in non-melodic noises. Philly-based trombonist Dan Blacksberg favored extended techniques over simple atonality. The problem seemed to be that the three never really coalesced into a trio, and it felt as if they struggled to find a point to their playing. At one point, Blacksberg accidentally dropped his Harmon mute while manipulating it in the bell, and although he played on as if nothing happened, that unplanned action seemed to shock and invigorate the group. If even for just a bit, an electricity ran through us all. Sometimes circumstances beyond one's control are necessary for development.

A matter of seconds into Group Three's performance, it was clear that they would be the best performance of the night. It was a stellar group, and all local folk. The VIP was M.C. Schmidt, who with his life partner Drew Daniel make up the acclaimed experimental electronic duo (yeah, another one) Matmos. Last year they moved here from LA, and we are pleased as punch that they have assimilated themselves into the local scene, despite already having an international audience. Schmidt was a kitchen sink player. He moved recklessly between vocalizations, goofy synthesizers and live sound effects. He put marbles in his mouth and dribbled them into a steel thermos, and cleverly varied the act to achieve more than one sound. He conducted half of an argument. He pushed things off his table. (This makes sense, since foley recordings and musiqué concrete are Matmos' forté.)
The other two musicians worked hard to keep up; John Eaton was less interested in his alto sax than in the pickup mic inside, and Alessandro Bosetti used his laptop and homemade keyboard to play snippets of foreign language plays and poems (I think). Ideas were going everywhere, like marbles scattering across the floor, which also happened.
During the intermission before the last set, one of the performers, Ric Royer, handed out a sheet titled "You Will Play Too". Here is an excerpt:

It has been said that the audience that connects with 'this kind of music' is an audience that projects themselves into the set... As my contribution to this set, I am not only testing this hypothesis, but the audience to go one step further in their level of engagement: I am asking you to perform.

On the back of the sheet was a list of fifteen instructions, "some more open to interpretation than others." Royer had corresponding numbered placards, and would be holding them up during the performance. I was so down for this.
Also during the intermission, M.C. Schmidt took a seat next to me. I took the opportunity to thank him for his performance, and to also tell him that I am a big fan of Matmos. A personal highlight.

When Group Four took the stage, Royer sat at a table in the middle. Reclining in his chair, his legs crossed, he waited eagerly and with visible mischief for the right moments in which to brandish his numbers. We all did, too. 11, we made kissing sounds. 7, we pounded our hands and feet on anything nearby. 1, we began humming, and slowly crescendoed into a positive din. 5, we whispered. 9, we all switched seats. 13, the instructions were simply "O", and I decided to shout it in various inflections (Oh? Oh. Ooooooo!! Ooooohhhffff.... O, ho ho ho HO!!!)
A friend recently told me that he doesn't enjoy improv concerts, not because he can't tolerate the music, but because he wants so much to join in that he's uncomfortable being just an audience member. This made sense to me, and while I still greatly enjoy attending these concerts, I often felt that tug of creative self-expression, the exhibitionist's drive. For this, the opportunity to participate in the music for Group Four was more than welcome: it was cathartic. All the same, I couldn't help but feel there were some fundamental problems with the act of making the audience into a participating performer. In essence, the two are mutually exclusive. One engages and appreciates music differently when one is creating it and when one is observing its creation. One listens differently, as well. When I became a conduit of sounds, my attention was mainly focused on my job, and I became less aware of the music coming from the performers onstage. Perhaps you've noticed that thus far I haven't even mention who the others were (one was Robert van Heumann again, the other was a guitarist names Bill Nace, of whose intriguing approach I could only barely be aware). So while I enjoyed getting a chance to make some music, it gave me an appreciation for the times when I remain an audience member.

The set, and the night was over all too quickly. I drove home blasting jazz on NPR.

Later that night, as my eyes fluttered behind their lids, I improvised my own reality of how Thursday night would be.