Cantaloupe, 2020
contemporary classical, minimalism
(ENGLISH TEXT BELOW)
Difficile immaginare un’eredità di Meredith Monk che prescinda dalla partecipazione dell’autrice stessa: lo dimostra il fatto che esistano relativamente poche registrazioni ed esecuzioni dal vivo di sue musiche nelle quali non sia coinvolta in prima persona; e nonostante la nutrita cerchia di storici comprimari e l’impegno continuativo – attraverso workshop pubblici e privati – nella trasmissione del suo singolare approccio performativo, nessun discepolo potrebbe davvero colmare il vuoto della sua radiosa presenza scenica.
Ma non è per questo motivo, infatti, che Memory Game rappresenta una felice anomalia nel curriculum discografico di Monk. Il primo elemento di discontinuità è la partecipazione – sotto ogni aspetto – di un ensemble “estraneo”: Bang on a Can All-Stars è affiliato all’eponimo collettivo americano fondato e diretto da Michael Gordon, David Lang e Julia Wolfe, afferenti in varia forma al macro-insieme delle propaggini post-minimaliste; al sestetto di musicisti è stato affidato il compito di riarrangiare una selezione di brani dall’opera teatrale “The Games” (1983) e da altri cicli di canzoni più o meno datati.
Con ciò ne consegue che la pubblicazione avvenga con il marchio collaterale a Bang on a Can, ossia Cantaloupe Music, così deviando momentaneamente dal consolidato rapporto con la ECM di Manfred Eicher, al quale resta comunque il primato – tra lungimiranza e colpo di fortuna – di aver colto anzitempo l’eccezionalità dell’artista, destinata a scrivere la storia dell’avanguardia newyorchese.
È un recupero parziale ma comunque del tutto inedito, quello dall’opera “The Games”, non essendo mai stata incisa su disco sino a oggi: una curiosa omissione, poiché trattasi di un lavoro in un certo senso sineddotico rispetto all’intera visione artistica dell’autrice. Sullo sfondo di una desolazione post-apocalittica, alcuni sopravvissuti si trovano ogni anno a organizzare giochi collettivi per racimolare ciò che nella loro mente è rimasto delle perdute culture e forme di dialogo precedenti al disastro.
I germogli di questa tabula rasa si manifestano come ‘ripetizione differente’ di segmenti verbali su refrain melodici circolari: dopo la squisita introduzione strumentale di “Spaceship” siamo introdotti nel vivo dell’opera dal ritmo sincopato della tastiera di Vicky Chow cui si aggiungono, gradualmente e a fasi alterne, il basso e la chitarra elettrica di Robert Black e Mark Stewart, dando così alla “Gamemaster’s Song” di Theo Bleckmann le forme di una solleticante synth-wave da camera.
Il lamento corale di “Migration” con gli altri membri del Vocal Ensemble (le fedelissime Katie Geissinger e Allison Sniffin) rappresenta un flashback malinconico, una parentesi narrativa avvolta nelle risonanze del vibrafono e nelle sommesse volute del clarinetto, dove il recitato dell’ospite Michael Cerveris riporta con tono neutrale le informazioni sui precedenti abitanti del pianeta, desunte e raccolte attraverso i giochi:
“They were not unlike us in appearance, though their lifespan was eighty years. The adults among them weighed from approximately one-hundred to two-hundred pounds. Some of them had offspring already at the age of thirteen, but the average age of a mother is twenty-five. Their languages numbered in the thousands, many of which we’ve succeeded in transcribing. Some of them bear similarities to our own language: we have now put them into common usage. The climate of the southern atmosphere was very warm, so most people lived in lightweight shelters and wore little clothing. Many were forced to move from place to place. Towards the end, the smell of the air changed. We know all these things, because some of their ancient ones are still among us.”
Come una cullante ninna-nanna dell’oblio, in “Memory Song” Monk simula l’apprendimento linguistico di un bambino, ripetendo la prima coniugazione del verbo “to forget” in varie distorsioni sino a raggiungere quella corretta, pratica che innesca nella mente le prime figure riconoscibili del pre-mondo reale (“trees, birds, coffee / do you remember?”). Un ultimo, luminoso girotondo di voci si eleva assieme a richiami ornitologici che annunciano, forse, l’incoraggiante avvio di una piena riconquista dello scibile umano. Il nucleo primario dell’album avrebbe potuto concludersi così, anziché con le tonalità più ambigue di “Downfall”, che pure presenta apprezzabili coloriture strumentali, specie nel vibrafono e nel sax di glassiana memoria.
È nella seconda parte, tuttavia, che i dettagli d’arrangiamento dei BoaCAS si fanno più pervasivi sino a diventare, in certi casi, simbiotici con le litanie del coro: nel “Waltz in 5s” (dall’oratorio “The Politics of Quiet”) i fraseggi della chitarra elettrica duplicano gli arabeschi dell’aria vocale; la lunga danza orientaleggiante di “Tokyo Cha Cha” (da “Turtle Dreams Cabaret”) è forse il momento di maggior complicità tra le parti, guidato da delicate cadenze percussive e dal mood nostalgico della melodica.
In appena tre minuti lo strumentale “Totentanz” (da “Impermanence”) attraversa un arco espressivo in cui l’innocente tema iniziale si capovolge d’un tratto in un macabro ritornello che sfocia in uno stomp sottolineato dal registro grave degli archi, per poi tornare altrettanto rapidamente al principio, chiosato stavolta dal cinguettio del clarinetto.
Da ultimo Monk rivendica il suo ruolo da protagonista in “Double Fiesta”, estratto da “Acts from Under and Above” già apparso nell’album Do You Be (ECM, 1987): l’ossessivo refrain su due note dell’ensemble cresce d’intensità mentre la performer si abbandona al canto spontaneo e asemantico che storicamente la contraddistingue, di solito accompagnato con accordi di pianoforte nettamente squadrati e qui immerso, invece, nella pluralità timbrica di un gruppo affiatato e del tutto riconoscibile nella sua impronta stilistica.
Così Memory Game raccoglie in maniera originale una sequenza di estratti particolarmente gioiosi e divertiti dal repertorio di Meredith Monk: un vero e proprio “gioco” di scena atto a riconfermare che l’abbandono della significazione non equivale all’inespressività, e anzi in esso si può trovare la forma più incontaminata di sentimento.
It’s hard to imagine a legacy of Meredith Monk regardless of her own participation: this is proven by the fact that there are relatively few recordings and live performances of her music in which she’s not personally involved; and despite the large circle of historical collaborators and the strenuous commitment – through public and private workshops – in the transmission of her singular performative approach, no disciple could really fill the void of her radiant stage presence.
But this is not, in fact, the reason for which Memory Game represents a happy anomaly in Monk’s discography. The first element of discontinuity is the participation – under every aspect – of an “extraneous” ensemble: Bang on a Can All-Stars is affiliated with the eponymous American collective founded and directed by Michael Gordon, David Lang and Julia Wolfe, in various forms afferent to the macro-group of post-minimalist offshoots; the sextet of musicians was entrusted with the task of rearranging a selection of songs from the play “The Games” (1983) as well as other more or less dated song cycles.
From this it follows that the publication appears under the label collateral to Bang on a Can, meaning Cantaloupe Music, thus temporarily deviating from the consolidated relationship with the ECM imprint run by Manfred Eicher, who nonetheless retains primacy – between foresight and stroke of luck – in having caught ahead of time the exceptional nature of the artist, destined to write the history of the New York avant-garde.
It’s a partial but still unprecedented recovery, that from the opera “The Games”, which has never been recorded until today: a curious omission, since this work has certain synecdotic quality in relation to the author’s artistic vision as a whole. Against the desolation of a post-apocalyptic scenery, some survivors find themselves organizing collective games every year to gather what’s left of the lost cultures and forms of dialogue that preceded the disaster.
The sprouts of this tabula rasa manifest themselves as a ‘different repetition’ of verbal segments on circular melodic refrains: after the exquisite instrumental introduction of “Spaceship” we are led into the heart of the work by the syncopated rhythm of Vicky Chow’s keyboard to which, gradually and alternately, add up Robert Black’s bass and Mark Stewart’s electric guitar, in this way giving the shape of a tickling chamber-synth-wave to the “Gamemaster’s Song” intoned by Theo Bleckmann.
The choral lament of “Migration” with the other members of the Vocal Ensemble (the loyal Katie Geissinger and Allison Sniffin) represents a melancholic flashback, a narrative parenthesis wrapped in the resonances of the vibraphone and the subdued volutes of the clarinet, while the guest narrator Michael Cerveris reports in a neutral tone the information about the previous inhabitants of the planet, inferred and collected through the games:
“They were not unlike us in appearance, though their lifespan was eighty years. The adults among them weighed from approximately one-hundred to two-hundred pounds. Some of them had offspring already at the age of thirteen, but the average age of a mother is twenty-five. Their languages numbered in the thousands, many of which we’ve succeeded in transcribing. Some of them bear similarities to our own language: we have now put them into common usage. The climate of the southern atmosphere was very warm, so most people lived in lightweight shelters and wore little clothing. Many were forced to move from place to place. Towards the end, the smell of the air changed. We know all these things, because some of their ancient ones are still among us.”
Like a gentle lullaby of oblivion, in “Memory Song” Monk simulates a child’s language learning, repeating the first conjugation of the verb “to forget” in various distortions until reaching the correct one, a practice that mentally triggers the first recognizable figures of the real pre-world (“trees, birds, coffee / do you remember?”). One last luminous roundabout of voices rises together with ornithological calls announcing, perhaps, the encouraging start of a complete reconquest of human knowledge. The primary nucleus of the album could have ended in this way, rather than with the more ambiguous shades of “Downfall”, which nevertheless presents some valuable instrumental colorings, especially from the vibraphone and the Glass-esque saxophone.
It’s in the second part, however, that the arrangement details of BoaCAS make themselves more pervasive, in certain cases becoming even symbiotic with the choral litanies: in “Waltz in 5s” (from the oratorio “The Politics of Quiet”) the phrases of the electric guitar duplicate the arabesques of the vocal aria; the long oriental-inspired dance “Tokyo Cha Cha” (from “Turtle Dreams Cabaret”) is perhaps the moment of greatest complicity between the parties, guided by delicate percussive cadences and by the nostalgic mood of the melodica.
In just about three minutes the instrumental “Totentanz” (from “Impermanence”) goes through an expressive arc in which the innocent initial theme suddenly turns upside down in a macabre refrain, leading to a stomp underlined by the lower register of the strings, then returning just as quickly to the beginning, this time commented by the chirping of the clarinet.
Finally Monk reclaims her leading role in “Double Fiesta”, taken from “Acts from Under and Above” and already featured on the album Do You Be (ECM, 1987): the obsessive two-note refrain of the ensemble grows in intensity while the performer indulges in the spontaneous and asemantic singing that historically distinguishes her, usually accompanied by neatly squared piano chords and here immersed, instead, in the timbral plurality of a close-knit group, fully recognizable in its stylistic mark.
Thus Memory Game collects in an original way a series of particularly joyful and amused extracts from Meredith Monk’s repertoire: an authentic stage “game” which reinforces that the neglecting of signification does not equate to inexpressiveness, and indeed the most pristine form of sentiment can be found in it.
esoteros 