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'.