Sweet Accord

What does America sound like? (Is it a testament to this country that I struggle to answer that question?) Am I so unaware of America's roots that Rivers of Delight, an acapella collection of American Folk Hymns from the Sacred Harp tradition, sounds completely foreign to me? I'd have answered all these questions, if I hadn't been so busy being enchanted and bemused in turn by the Word of Mouth chorus, and their shapenote/Fasola/whatever-you-want-to-call-it style of singing. I picture it as the countrymouse to its city-mouse cousin, Christmas caroling.
The majority of tracks on Rivers of Delight are under 2 minutes, and wisely so. These songs are exhausting, for both the singers and the listener. With each wandering, bucolic hymn, I'm reminded that this is real folk music, and it takes no prisoners. This is meant in unavoidable reference to the stark, unfiltered quality of each track; this music is nothing if not raw. As a choir brat, I was immediately on the defensive. The first song sent my lip curling. What are those vowel sounds? Is the choir...yelling? My inner soprano was ruffled, possibly shocked. The voices dive into the songs, sounding like they're trying to muscle each other out of the way to be the loudest. In fact, aside from quadruple fortissimo, there is a brazen abandoning of dynamics, as well as axe-swingingly confident parallel octaves, and generally a cheerful disregard for anything but sheer power of rhythm and the voice. It threatens, in its folksy way, to bring the entire foundation of western music theory to its overly-refined knees. My overly refined ear had to reconcile with the untrained squawking from the tenor section: at first abrasive, but eventually mesmorizing. I learned later that, instead of standard SATB, the parts are divided into treble, alto, tenor and bass. Men and women sing the treble line an octave's length apart, while the tenor takes care of the melody. It's slightly unnerving, but effective with the text; this is church music, and the spirit is soaring.
One reason for their unfinished sound is the choir is actively trying to get you to sing along. The beat is driving, the phrasing clips along like horse hooves. If the lyrics call for a rough sound, they're rough and stomping all over you ("Cowper"), but sandwiched between the more honking songs are gorgeous, rippling ballads like "Sweet Prospect", winding melodies incorporating only female voices or a selection of singers. "Peace and Joy" exemplifies the animated quality of the album; the chorus sings a merry fugue until they reach an almost cartoonish rhythmic unison on phrases like "Never shall the cross forsake me!" Celtic influence is not far off, especially in the duet "Parting friends", complete with bleak lyrics and a distinctly irish warble in the female vocal line. There are liner notes as well, written by self-proclaimed leader Larry Gordan, with full lyrics and a bit of a history lesson. It's much appreciated by anyone purchasing this album, because after listening to a few of these songs, you'll realize you need to know everything about what and where the hell these songs come from.
The album is exactly 30 years old, and if nothing's changed since 1978, there are still over 500 annual Sacred Harp sessions throughout the South. Haunting and timeless in their simplicity and strangeness, the album is a splash into different waters, shocking at first, but then refreshing, as each carousing song ends quickly enough for you to catch your breath--then happily dive in again and again.

Hello Meredith Monk.

Dolmen Music, Meredith Monk's love letter to the larynx, is set for six voices (three men, three women) and a lone cellist who, by the end of the album, may have wondered if she had wandered into the wrong recording session. The album is firmly centered on the voice. Every piece stretches the 'singers' into a different, wordless dimension, sometimes mimicking the vocal sensations of gregorian chant, other times of terrifying ritualistic dances; an early moment uses simple tonal phrasing to mock the English language, as the men seem to 'talk' to each other in nonsense syllables, sounding so conversational it tricks the ear into thinking the babble is understandable. It poses an interesting question to the listener: Is this how I heard before I learned how to speak? It might not be different from being a baby: is this music how babies feel before language connects them to their surroundings? I'm sure explosive laughter would be startling to a baby, as the punctuated shrieking toward the end of the album was to me as a first time listener.
Dolmen is an Irish word, and it refers to a tomb, a word that immediately colored my interpretation of the pieces. I wasn't struck by signs of mourning or grief from these pieces, though there are moments of extreme cacophony and heavy, gray "ahh" vowels. What's clear is she's remembering the voice as an instrument. She made the decision to be playful with the possibilities of voice, to abandon lyrics and embrace minimalism. Though often refreshing, it's slightly myopic at times, almost reminiscent of the sounds a recreational drug user might make while high and 'dude, I think I'm hearing my voice for the first time'.

Kronos Quartet deals with John Zorn

In the first few measures of John Zorn’s Cat O’ Nine Tails, The Kronos Quartet isn’t setting a theme, or establishing the tonic, or even setting the tempo. They sound like they’re pulling up a floorboard. It’s Pandora’s floorboard, no less, and the following minutes emerge rife with dissonance and rapid bowing, not to mention plucking, slapping, and (is it? yep) barking. "I've got an incredibly short attention span,” the composer explains. “My music is jam-packed with information that is changing very fast.” The Kronos quartet has done a fine job processing that kind of mentality. The strings don’t merely bow; they hum, flutter, screech and even take a moment to tease a confused ear with a bluegrass rhythm that ends as abruptly as it begins. The Quartet, right at home on Zorn’s wavelength, continues throughout the piece to hop, waver, plunge into non-sequitur cadences, whisper, cry out, and of course, mew. (I’m still referring to your standard violin.) There are moments of tonal balance, but those sweep by quickly, as if deemed suddenly passé. With all this internal madness, it might not be a floorboard being pulled up after all, but the top of John Zorn’s head. The strings often fire like brain response synapses, with a lot of colorful chromatic and dynamic dipping and diving, before finally winding down quietly and suddenly, playing a series of chords somewhat sadly (as one instrument piteously mews). It left me with the spinning impression that the piece (and Zorn’s glistening brain) is alive and attractively complex, though it sounds like he could make use of a butterfly net in there, or maybe even a fly swatter.