Art and America Now

What is America? Simply put, it is not just the land between the Pacific and Atlantic—it is a collection of people and their ideas, thoughts, and symbols. American history is complicated, and there is much to be ashamed of, but most of us, regardless of identifier (political, racial, sexual, or religious) are able to connect with the one unifying symbol of America. As an American, you may be fulfilled, happy—content with your lot in life. More realistically, you may be upset, angry, or disappointed with the way things are turning out during what seems to be the death throes of the American experiment. Of course, artists often see things differently. In a discussion of art and American themes, it is impossible not to consider Jasper Johns. His Three Flags, and other works involving the American flag, are perhaps the obvious subject to discuss here, but they may be too easy when considering the most important question they raise: is this a painting or a flag? To me, it is both. Sometimes searching for deeper meaning is unnecessary, as the artist may have had a simple goal to accomplish. Recreating the symbology of the American flag is easy to digest, as it is burned indelibly into our mind. But what about a map of America? In what new ways can we see America? If we are asked to picture an image of America in our head, what do we conjure up? Many of us probably picture a flag, or a bald eagle. Alternatively, many of us may picture a map. With the borders neatly demarcated, the states shown in varying shades of color. We may be reminded of elementary school, and memories of a giant map that hung on the wall. It is this image that Johns likely took great pleasure in deconstructing with his Map of 1961. By blurring the shapes and borders of the states, he offers a more realistic (and colorful) view of what America truly is—a place that is more likely defined by the spaces between the lines, rather than the convenient definitions of states. To me this suggests a hopeful outlook on the part of Johns, and with his use of bright color I feel that he wants the viewer to share in his optimism.

            If Jasper Johns’ Map is a commentary on the idea of the American melting pot, then William Wegman’s The Tilted Chair is something entirely different. The size and grandeur of the piece itself is one of its defining characteristics. Viewing the huge piece has the effect of transporting you into a fantasy version of America, where points of interest on the landscape are connected by stylized mountain ranges, rivers, and roads. These points of interest are represented by found postcards; images of smiling women in bikinis, the Space Needle in Seattle, a row of parrots sitting on a tree limb. It’s like looking at the collected memories of a middle-class family’s travels in 1950’s America. It is shiny, happy, and prosperous, and further, it suggests that the spaces between may be more representative of the American journey. The piece is marvelous, and it appeals to the world designer in me as there are a multitude of stories possibly taking place on these four panels of wood.

            Additionally, if the space between, as suggested by Wegman in The Tilted Chair, is important to consider when thinking about American values and themes, then Diane Arbus’ Xmas tree in a living room, Levittown, L.I. 1963 is most assuredly a piece worthy of reflection. Arbus once said that “a photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it shows you, the less you know”. When we look at a picture like this, the potential for teleportation to a different time in America is great. The console TV on the stand in the corner, the garish tinsel on the (probably fake) Christmas tree, the plastic covering on the lamp shade; all indicators of a curated image of a new middle-class America. The historical context of this photograph may be more important than the image itself. The Levitts were pioneers of affordable housing in America, and Levittown, Long Island represents the largest subdivision ever constructed. For veterans returning from World War II, a tract house built by the Levitt Company offered an affordable option for experiencing the “good life”. Referred to as ‘the rabbit hutch’ by some observers, the subdivision provided a transition, facilitated by generous government home loans, where GIs could start a family. These homes even included the appliances. The gap between city and rural life was finally bridged, and the middle class was born. But, is it possible that the positives of these opportunities of ready-made convenience were diminished by the nature of the sterility of their surroundings. After all, what new ideas could come of the relative ease of the cookie cutter lifestyle promoted by the idea of a subdivision? Arbus’ photograph seems to prophetically symbolize the emptiness that would later be felt in the middle-class experience of America.

            These three pieces considered together reinforce the idea of America as a place full of possibilities and potentialities dependent upon personal worldviews and outlooks. Johns’ Map is colorful and bright, a simple piece, but not simplistic. Wegman and his fantasy landscape shows an imagination run wild, and like his other works involving his dog Man Ray, it is pure whimsy. It is a chuckle in the face of over-serious viewers. Finally, Arbus’ photograph is a snapshot of loneliness and alienation. It is indicative of an empty existence, waiting to be filled with relationships and meaning. In the vacuum of that factory-built, sterile living room in Levittown, the only thing that can be produced is children, or more accurately, future consumers—cogs in the machine of the American economy.

Today, it seems that any worthy discussion regarding art and pseudo-modernism must be couched by two broad signifiers; consumerism, and the impact of the events of 9/11. These two issues stroll, hand-in-hand, across the collective psyche of America. Of course, some people (such as artists, musicians, and writers) are more sensitive to the effects and ramifications of these two cultural juggernauts, while others are happy to meander through life in a sugar and trans-fat induced walking coma.

            For his part, photographer Paul Shambroom is wide awake. His work explores the power structures of the world, especially as they relate to the realities of a post-9/11 milieu. His photograph Level A HAZMAT suit, yellow, speaks to the paranoia of a new age, but it is also an echo of the past. The bright yellow of the suit brings to mind the atomic age, and is a jarring contrast against the fertile green of the forest in the background. It is reminiscent of more than one Black Sabbath album cover, and I think that the connection would not be lost on Shambroom. Although Black Sabbath could easily be dismissed as having little value in a discussion of pseudo-modern art, it is important to note that many of their songs dealt with alienation and were often offered as a commentary on power structures. This parallel, while of arguable import, should not be ignored. Often, popular art (be it music, or visual) is more subversive than it is sometimes given credit for. Much of their music was a response to the fear of living in the nuclear age, beneath the shadow of the bomb. Black Sabbath aside, Shambrooms photo is only one of a series that deal with this new picture of America. The artist has also published a series of photographs that tell the story of America and its relationship with the nuclear bomb, entitled Face to Face with the bomb: nuclear reality after the Cold War. Until 9/11, American citizens hadn’t been required to experience the horrors of war first hand. The experience was distant, and the events often unfolded after the fact in a movie theater via the skilled performances of Lee Marvin and John Wayne. We were protected by dissociation. To that, there is a dissociative quality about this photograph, but is its goal to protect…or to warn? Is it a stretch to consider this man in the yellow suit as a faceless minion of an evil empire set on subjugation and control? Or is it just an entry in the catalog of products of the 21^st century?

            In the 21^st century the internet is a blessing and a curse. In the halcyon days before the internet, we had limited access to information. Comparatively, now we are inundated with it. It takes a keen and discerning mind to wade through the dross, otherwise one experiences overload. But in those days of blissful ignorance, the McDonalds fast food chain was still one of the good guys. You could still enjoy a Coke-Cola without too guilty of a conscience. Sure, you might hear conspiracies of the acidic power of soda pop to melt aluminum, or that McDonalds used all sorts of additives in the production of their food. Even icons of American popular culture were still immune to much of the criticism that they are subject to today. It is difficult to deny the negative effects of a fast food diet when Morgan Spurlock sacrifices his health by eating nothing but McDonalds in the 2004 documentary Supersize Me. Only in the internet age could that movie have reached such a wide audience. Today, there are no sacred cows, and that is a good thing. We can look at the art of Ron English, specifically Super Supper, as a prime example of the new power that Americans have access to. Not so long ago, Americans remained in the dark (mostly) about what a healthy diet consisted of. Thanks to artists like English we are urged to question those notions that we have lived with for so long. Is it because of our own choices that we are overweight and dying in droves of heart disease and diabetes? Or, are we victims of an advertising machine that seeks to make us fat and apathetic to the world around us? After all, if we are all fat, miserable slugs then the real horrors of the world won’t have nearly the impact that they should. English is a self-proclaimed “popagandist” and his penchant for culture jamming is boundless. It is apparent that he has a goal in mind, when a fat Ronald McDonald is depicted seated as Jesus at the table of the Last Supper with his disciples of pop culture. Have Americans crucified McDonalds? Has Ronald McDonald died for all of our sins of gluttony, greed, and sloth?

            What has become of our dreams? Why are we at such odds with “the powers that be”? And is that truly the reality? Most of us are happy to shuffle about the planet, buying things, eating things, and drinking things. We consume with great zeal the pink slime that is fed to us through the tubes of popular culture. Our lives are a performance, and Facebook is the ultimate performance within a performance. I wonder what would happen if our reality suddenly shifted, and Facebook was shut down? It is my hope that we could get back to the business of living, instead of consuming. It is likely that an artist like Banksy has similar hopes for humanity. His street art seems to portray that message. His efforts exist to shift the viewer’s consciousness, indeed to place something thought-provoking that wasn’t there before. It would be folly to think that his art is simply graffiti, for words on a wall are seldom ignored. Critics of Banksy (and his street artist comrades) are quick to dismiss street art as simple vandalism. They claim that it serves no meaningful purpose and adds to the plight of already suffering neighborhoods. Hmm? Could it be that they are just upset at the power of street art like Banksy’s to detract from corporate advertising? After all, his work isn’t terribly offensive, and indeed many of his pieces are whimsical in nature, revolutionary…but with a twist of innocence. The subversive nature of his work is likely the real issue. One piece depicts a man, his face covered with a bandana as if he were involved in a protest action, throwing a bouquet of flowers like a Molotov cocktail. It is a lovely sentiment, if slightly naïve, and it hearkens back to the message of peace postulated by the hippie movement in the 1960’s. There is a piece that seems to be more valuable, especially in regards to the focus of this essay. Follow Your Dreams is a piece of street art that appeared in Boston in the early 2000’s. It shows a simple graffiti tag stating “Follow Your Dreams”, and standing next to it is a man armed with bucket and brush, who has pasted a red “cancelled” stamp over top of the message. The man, wearing simple clothes, seems to have a guilty conscience. Almost like he was only doing his job. The piece sums up the message that many of these pseudo-modern artists are trying to get across to us. The machine of America will continue on, its citizens merely meat for the beast that must be fed. Our dreams will continue to be cancelled and replaced by the Facebook of the future. At least, that is how I have received Banksy’s message.

            In the end, we know not what the future holds. With the help of artists such as the six that have been discussed here, we may suddenly wake up from our collective coma and begin to see each other again, or to hear music for the first time from the unlikeliest of sources. Maybe as enjoyers of art we could meet them in the middle. Perhaps we can log off of Facebook from time to time, so that we can take the time to foster real relationships again. Maybe true love is right in front of us, but our realities have been replaced by the hyper-reality that Eco speaks of, and we are simply unable to appreciate it or even see it. It is easy to simply enjoy art—to delight in experiencing something new. The real challenge is being receptive to the deeper meanings offered to us by artists like Jasper Johns or Ron English, and allowing a new idea to worm its way into our brain. While there are ample opportunities for us to remain contentious and adversarial with each other and the world around us, always struggling to find a better job, a better house, a better life—perhaps it would be more beneficial for us to actually produce less and just simply be.

All images are borrowed and belong to the original artist.

            

Roky Erickson: Sociologically Speaking

In 1969, Roky Erickson, lead singer of the influential psychedelic rock group The Thirteenth Floor Elevators, languished in Texas’s Rusk State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He had run afoul of local law enforcement earlier in the year for a minor drug offense, and was on their radar as a person of interest. There exists a notion of the Sixties as being a time characterized by freedom of choice, a time when experimentation with various drugs was acceptable, if not encouraged. Texas, though, was different-- and Roky Erickson can attest to that. The Texas state government took a hardline stance against drugs and drug offenders in the sixties and seventies, a position that endures to this day. To illustrate just how draconian Texas drug policy was in the psychedelic Sixties, one is urged to consider the story of Roky Erickson.

Born Roger Kynard Erickson on July 15, 1947, Roky took to music at an early age. By the age of 10, Roky was showing some promise as a guitarist and harmonica player. In his mid-teens, Roky dropped out of high school rather than conform to their policy of short haircuts, and began playing music with other local musicians. Eventually, he and some friends would form The Thirteenth Floor Elevators, and coin the term psychedelic rock. Their first album, The Psychedelic Sounds of the 13^th Floor Elevators, would be released in 1966, featuring the single “You’re Gonna Miss Me”. Roky and his band mates would enjoy a modicum of success, with the record charting well in the American Southwest, and also appearing on the national charts, albeit at a lower position. This early success would lead to an appearance on Dick Clark’s American Bandstand, and West Coast tours for the Elevators, offering support for such high-profile acts as The Jefferson Airplane, Quicksilver Messenger Service, and Moby Grape (www.rokyerickson.net). The Elevator’s frantic sound, characterized by Roky’s screaming Texas caterwaul, an electrified whiskey jug, and feedback-drenched distorted guitars, coupled with their lysergically-manufactured lyrics, would have a marked influence on the artists of the time. But the success was not to last.

While attending the 1969 World’s Fair in San Antonio, Roky Erickson was arrested for marijuana possession (www.rokyerickson.net). The amount that he is said to have been in possession of ranges from one to six joints. According to Texas law at the time, the amount was enough to imprison Roky for up to ten years. At the urging of his court appointed attorney, Roky plead insanity, in hopes of receiving a reduced sentence. The judge committed Roky to the Rusk State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, where doctors diagnosed him with schizophrenia. Roky would spend three years incarcerated, subjected to repeated sessions of electroconvulsive therapy and thorazine treatments. While incarcerated, Roky began to write lyrics and poetry, often involving imagery of demons and angels. The treatment that he received had a profound effect on his psyche, and when he was finally released in 1972, he began a new career, punctuated by bouts of heroin addiction and schizophrenia.

The 2005 documentary “You’re Gonna Miss Me” details Roky Erickson’s recovery from obscurity, and his decades long battle with schizophrenia. The movie offers much insight into the struggles and challenges that families face when mental illness exists. Importantly, the camera never looks at Roky with a piteous eye, but unfortunately, it is hard for the viewer not to. In a scene that illustrates his illness, Roky sits in a recliner in his tiny, cluttered apartment. He wears giant blue-blocker sunglasses over his eyes, as a constant assault of white noise, static, and voices blare from radios, televisions, and modulators situated around the room. Roky is taking a nap, and must drown out the voices in his head. The documentary is sometimes sad to watch, but the extras offered on the DVD more than reassure sympathetic fans as to Roky’s place in the musical landscape.

According to the documentary, Roky’s days of using illegal, mind-altering substances are a thing of the past (Erickson). However, in considering his past use, it is likely that it began as experimentation, as supported by the social psychological theory of drug use. This theory posits that nearly anyone, from any walk of life, is potentially at risk of becoming involved with drugs (Thio 287). The social psychological theory suggests that drug use is so ubiquitous in a culture, as a response there is a more permissive view on drugs, legal and otherwise (288). On the surface, America in the late 1960’s could be regarded as the pinnacle of socially accepted drug use, but a closer look may reveal that today’s America is far more permissive. After all, the romantic notions of the hippie movement are largely figments of America’s collective consciousness, and it is important to realize that ‘dope smokers’ and ‘acid heads’ were very much considered to be on the fringe in Middle America. Drugs were considered evil, and it is in this era that Nixon’s war on drugs began in earnest. Today, drugs are still considered a social ill, but lawmakers have shifted their focus away from psychedelics in response to the new dangers of methamphetamine and less recently, crack cocaine.

In considering drug use and abuse, it is worth noting lawmaker’s opinions in a historical context. Drug policy in America is often shaped not by a loving, caring state whose interests lie in rehabilitating unfortunate drug-addicted citizens—conversely, it is almost always shaped by economically and racially motivated interests (Thio 288). Many examples of these policies exist, starting with the anti-opium laws of the late 1800’s (which were essentially anti-Chinese laws) and extending to the present day drug laws, which are obviously connected to hot button issues such as illegal immigration, prison-for-profit, and pharmaceutical company’s bottom lines (289). It is not apparent that there were racial motivations for incarcerating hippies in the 1960’s, but there were definitely economic motivations at work. The hippie movement challenged the status quo, and as vocal opponents of the conflict in Vietnam, they represented a threat to the establishment. In the eyes of law enforcement at the time, there was arguably no better way to handle drug offenders than incarceration, even if it meant committing them to a mental institution.

Unfortunately, Roky’s traumatic experiences in Rusk State Hospital for the Criminally Insane were not anomalous for the era, and likely contributed to further damaging an already fragile mental state. The mentally ill have been mistreated since the earliest of human civilizations. As far back as the Stone Age, someone was trying to pry open somebody else’s skull in an attempt to see what was misfiring, and evidence suggests that these examples exist as the earliest lobotomies (Thio 183). During the middle Ages, European leaders of the Christian church burned or hanged thousands of potentially mentally ill men, women, and children citing their practice in witchcraft and possession by demon entities as justification (183). In recent times, however America’s attitude towards the mentally ill has been one of misunderstanding and prejudice. Specifically, diagnosed schizophrenics like Roky Erickson have had a tough row to hoe for many years. In the mental institutions of mid-century America it was not uncommon for patients to be subjected to involuntary electro-shock therapy and thorazine treatments, among other unpleasant things. Further, patients in state mental institutions aren’t referred to as patients, inferring the existence of an illness, but as inmates (188). Sadly, these “inmates” are often on the receiving end of a variety of abusive, dehumanizing behaviors, including sexual abuse, overmedication, and neglect (188). Thankfully for the music world, Roky was released and able to continue his career, and some could argue that he was armed with new insight and inspiration fueled by his experiences while incarcerated at Rusk.

Alternatively, is it possible that Roky and others like him are not actually ill? Constructionist theorizers working under the assumptions of the labeling model argue that what society defines as insanity could actually be considered supersanity (Thio 196). British psychiatrist R.D. Laing’s opinions on mental illness challenge much of what is understood about the human brain. He suggests that modern psychiatrists don’t fully understand the nature of space and time. Furthermore, he asserts that what we view as insanity is actually an attenuation with one’s own inner realities (197). Cultures throughout history and pre-history have attempted through various methods to accomplish this attenuation. Interestingly, one of the primary tools used is some sort of mind altering substance, whether peyote for Native Americans, mushrooms for tribal Siberian elk hunters, or simply marijuana or LSD for psychedelic rockers. Conversely, Laing’s controversial experiments eschewed the use of drugs altogether. Ultimately, Laing’s unique approach cured many of the patients that he worked with (197).

My first exposure to Roky Erickson and his body of work was in the early 2000’s. I continue to be entranced by his songs about creatures with atom brains, two-headed dogs and moonlit strolls with a zombie date. Sweeter fare such as ‘Starry Eyes’ or ‘For You (I’d Do Anything)’, bring a bittersweet tear to the eye. As I delved deeper into his personal story, I was surprised to learn of his sometimes dire straits and pleased by his many triumphant rebirths. Erickson’s artistic output is truly unique, but unfortunately his story is not. There are countless people suffering from severe mental illness and drug addiction in America today. Sadly, most of them do not have access to the support network of fans, friends, and family that Roky Erickson has.  

Obviously, the most important consideration of drug abuse or mental illness in society is how we choose to treat it. Today, it seems America is moving (however slow a crawl) towards a more enlightened approach to drug use prevention and treatment. The haze of decades of ineffectual policies and treatment methods may finally be beginning to fade, as law enforcement agencies, doctors, and politicians are able to see how damaging and costly this War on Drugs has been. Hopefully, as our understanding of addiction and mental illness continues to increase, and we are able to develop more effective and less damaging medications, lives will improve.

To some Roky’s story, and ones similar to it, serve as a lesson or warning of what can happen when, motivated by fear and prejudice, doctors and legislators impose aggressive treatments and policies on illnesses and conditions that we don’t understand. To others, his story stands as a singular success as to what can happen when a sick individual is rehabilitated through proper therapy and medical treatment. Of course, without his family—namely, his brother Sumner who fought in court to obtain legal custody of his older brother, Roky’s fate would have been left to government officials to decide. The story stands as a testament to family responsibility, and the role we play in one another’s lives. In the end, it is probably best to be thankful that extraordinarily talented visionaries like Roky Erickson pop up from time to time. The world is a richer place with him in it. Sometimes though, it is important to peek behind the curtain. Back there are the advocates: the concerned brothers, husbands, and friends who protect those who aren’t able to protect themselves.

Works Cited

Thio, Alex. Deviant Behavior. New York: Pearson, 2010.

www.rokyerickson.net. n.d. 27 November 2011 <http://www.rokyerickson.net/index3.php>.

You're Gonna Miss Me. Dir. Keven McAlester. Perf. Roky Erickson. 2005.

Image is borrowed and is the property of the original artist.

    

    

    

    

     

Harry Partch: Embracing Apostasy

The legacy of Harry Partch is one of rebellion and freedom. His story remains as a singular example of what can be accomplished when the constraints of previously established structures are actively challenged. Partch fully considered himself an apostate. At the age of 29 he reacted to centuries of musical canon by destroying his own collected works, abandoning the standard 12 tone Western scale and what he called “the tyranny of the piano” (H. Partch, An unedited interview with Harry Partch). This defining moment in Partch’s life would serve as the catalyst for the creative adventure that was yet to come. All too often, the outsider is ignored and dismissed when their ideas or theories are too much for docile minds to consider, but when we attempt to look beyond the gates that we have closed in our own little worlds, we are able to fully consider the possibilities and options that are available to us. The works that Partch crafted in his own creative forge elegantly demonstrate that the possibilities are indeed limitless.

Those who play the role of the outsider in the theatre of life, are often forced into it. They will fight against being kept at the margins of society, sometimes desperately trying to break through to normalcy and acceptance. For Partch, the outsider was a part that he accepted and performed with gusto. Luckily, he was informally trained from an early age. Born to Presbyterian missionaries in Oakland, California at the turn of the twentieth century, Partch was exposed to Oriental culture from early on. Much of his early childhood was spent on the move, rarely settling in one place for too long. Further, his exposure to the culture of the Yanqui Indians in Arizona would add to his palette of influences later in life. In fact, he was surrounded by a wide variety of cultural influences, from Chinese lullabies sung by his mother, to the folk songs of Mexican migrant workers. His early work was an attempt at fitting his unique voice into the confining walls of American music. By his late twenties he had realized the lie of American music. After destroying his collected works in the aforementioned purging fire, he set out on the roads and railways of America, to live life as a sometimes hobo. Other times, he would win a grant with a university, and that would support him and his work, for a short while at least. It was in this milieu that he was able to explore and create his own philosophies. This transient lifestyle allowed him to pursue and form his own unique perspectives and values, unfettered by the rules of normal society. Throughout the 1930’s he was able to experience life as it was, not how it was dictated to him.

In the early 1920’s, Partch was growing weary of the traditional music instruction that he was receiving while enrolled in the School of Music at the University of Southern California. He heard something different. He was compelled to completely abandon the tenets set forth by his traditional schooling when he discovered a text by Hermann Helmholtz, entitled On the Sensations of Tone. This text would propel a life of experimentation with music theory and just intonation (the theories of which are explained in his book Genesis of A Music), and would inevitably lead to Partch modifying instruments in an effort to compose beyond the constraints of the 12 tone scale. Of course, his efforts at receiving recognition (and grant money) from the establishment were not terribly successful, and he struggled much. Following a short stay in Europe, where he met the English writer W.B. Yeats in hopes of a collaboration, he returned to the United States, which was in the middle of the Great Depression. His transient life would begin.

A wonderful representation of this early work inspired by his life on the road is Barstow. Originally composed for voice and guitar, the piece is an interpretation of hobo graffiti that Partch had seen on a bridge in Barstow, California. The piece is indicative of Partch’s desire to work with voice (and just intonation). The recited poems are delivered in a sing-songy manner, and illustrate a sense of humor that was severely lacking in the contemporary composers of the time. More important, Barstow shows where Partch was heading. Soon, adapted viola would not suffice.

It was in the late 1930’s that his instrument building, previously relegated to modifying small hand instruments, began to take on grander dimensions. It seemed to be a natural progression, as the music he was composing was beginning to overflow from the generous containers Partch was experimenting with. In an adult education course at a Los Angeles area high school, Partch built his first kithara. Of course, the kithara was not Partch’s first foray into instrument building or modification. There were adapted violas and guitars, and chromolodeon reed organs in strange tunings. While interesting, these early attempts at modifying existing instruments did not sate the desire that Partch had to create and break the rules. The instruments that he would create as his career would progress are far more interesting. Further, these instruments would enable Partch to compose on a different level. Most important, to compose the music that he wanted to hear, these instruments had to be created.

Tellingly, when Partch was asked who his audience was, he replied that “he was his own audience” (H. Partch, An unedited interview with Harry Partch). He had grown tired of the concert system, an attitude that he cultivated over many decades. He often speaks of his disdain for the concert system, as he describes the audience as unchanging for decades, and consistently populated by old, blue-haired women. Partch, for his part, is a promoter of youth and what is new. This maverick spirit is what allowed him to create his strange instruments, but it was also a burden. He found it difficult to make a steady living. It is this dedication to his vanguard attitude that people are still talking about him (and his instruments) today. What would Harry Partch have created if he would have unsuccessfully attempted for years to fit in with a system that he so despised? What if Partch would have just acquiesced and composed in a more traditional manner? The answer is simple: He would of most likely composed boring, forgettable pieces. He would have been miserable. And no one would have cared.

     
To this, Partch’s rebel nature would result in increasingly interesting compositions and instruments throughout his entire career. From the beginning of his rebirth (following the purging fire of 1929), his work would take many unpredictable turns, starting with his Seventeen Lyrics by Li Po. Partch shows his penchant for the unconventional here as for his first major work he chose to record readings of 8th Century Chinese poetry, accompanied of course by his adapted viola. The recording is beautiful and haunting, as it demonstrates Partch’s view of the the tones and fluctuations of speech as an instrument in its own right. The composer says it best in the liner notes of the album, "The Lyrics by Li Po are set to music in the manner of the most ancient of cultured musical forms. In this art, the vitality of spoken inflection is retained in the music, every syllable and inflection of the spoken expression being harmonized by the accompanying instrument. The music accompaniment, or, more properly, complement, in addition to being a harmonization, is an enhancement of the text-mood and frequently a musical elaboration of ideas expressed" (H. Partch, Liner Notes). Obviously, the spoken word was important to him.

U.S. Highball: A Musical Account of Slim’s Transcontinental Hobo Trip is a far more elaborate and involved work. Originally written in the early 1940’s, it details his account of life on the road. Partch was compelled to rewrite it 1955 to accommodate all of the advances in instrumentation that he had since discovered. When it was first written, it had parts for voice, adapted guitar, kithara, and chromolodeon. By the mid-fifties it had evolved into an epic piece employing some wild new instruments such as the boo, the spoils of war, and his cloud chamber bowls. These new instruments were groundbreaking, and some subliminally subversive. While Partch had little to say about politics, the inference is understood. The instrument itself was an amalgamation of other instruments, including cloud chamber bowls, and marimba. By adding a row of empty artillery shells Partch was inspired to dub this instrument, the spoils of war. The composer considered U.S. Highball his most creative work.

His cloud chamber bowls are perhaps the most interesting instrument in his menagerie of strangeness. While they suggest more than a passing interest in science for the composer, they also stand as the least musical instrument-like of all of his instruments. For they are not constructed of wood and metal like most traditional instruments, Nor are they intricately adapted organs or violas, retuned to fit into Partch’s revolutionary 43-tone scale. Also, they are not dried gourds that one could find in the garden. They are something completely different. They seem to be a direct reflection of the time in which they were created. Partch appropriated the cloud chamber bowls from the radiation laboratory at the University of California, Berkeley in 1950, the height of the atomic age. The glass bowls, when struck with a mallet, resonate with a deep bell sound, varying in pitch. The resulting sound is vaguely space-aged, and photographs of Partch playing them are evocative to say the least. In fact, many of the photographs of Partch and his instruments have the ability to transport the viewer to another time and place. But those effects are nothing compared to the transportative and transformative qualities of his music.

By the late 1960’s Partch had invented upwards of thirty different instruments. This self-described “philosophic music man seduced into carpentry” had been busy (Partch). His masterpiece Delusion of the Fury—A Ritual of Dream and Delusion would employ all of the influences and instruments Partch had considered throughout his lifetime. The list of musical instruments employed in the production of this two act play is staggering. A few examples of the stranger ones are the Bolivian double flute, the rhythm boat, and the waving drum. Besides Bolivian flautists, who even knew of such things in 1968? Clearly, it takes someone who is on a completely different wavelength to explore such esoterica. Further, the content of this two act play is odd. The first act is based on an 11^th Century Japanese fable, while the second act is an African folk tale. The combination of these two cultures on stage, accompanied by gaily costumed dancers and Partch’s challenging microtonal music played on strange instruments made of gourds and artillery shells, was surely something to witness.

In a discussion of Partch’s visionary approach to music and stage production we must consider his concept of the corporeal. The extension of the artist’s body into the art he created was critical to Partch. According to some, Partch observed a great disconnect between mind and body in the twentieth century. He felt compelled, with his art, to attempt to close this gap. It is a theme that runs through his compositions and essays throughout his entire career. Ironically, the corporeal ends up being interpreted as some sort of abstract ideal, exactly the opposite of what Partch strives to achieve through his music and stage production. The instruments themselves are the conduit for Partch’s compositions, while the musicians are the bridge in the current.

What becomes of the legacy of a man so misunderstood in his lifetime? Is it so difficult for a general audience to open their ears to something new and different? Why does the public insist on being spoon-fed their art and music? What is everyone so afraid of? Occasionally, there are outliers--artists that enjoy some level of commercial success while still staying true to their original vision and integrity. Artists like Frank Zappa, Tom Waits, and Beck. They all managed to experiemtn freely with sounds, holding their own creative reins throughout their careers. Interestingly, these three artists each represent a different era in the popular music landscape of America, and they were all three devotees of Harry Partch. So, in a way Partch lives on through those he influenced, and through the values of rebellion and questioning normalcy and tradition. I can almost hear the cloud chamber bowls, or the bass marimba when I listen to Tom Waits’ Swordfishtrombones. Or when Frank Zappa launches into an extended spoken word performance backed by Jean Luc-Ponty’s violin, I can hear Partch’s deep baritone coming through Zappa’s voice. Largely though, artists like Partch are forgotten only to resurface later for further appreciation.

His instruments nearly suffered a similar fate. After his death in 1973, Partch’s instruments were entrusted to Danlee Mitchell, an assistant and sometimes collaborator to Partch. After some time, the instruments began to languish, slowly becoming detuned, and deteriorating. Mitchell was unsure what to do with the instruments—how to store them, how to organize performances for them. Finally, the decision was made to transfer the instruments to more capable hands, those of Dean Drummond of the Newband Instrumentarium. Newband is a group that specializes in microtonal music, and through Drummond’s understanding of Partch’s philosophies and vision, all involved felt that this was in the best interest of Partch’s legacy and instruments. Physically, the instruments reside at the School of Music at Montclair State University in New Jersey. Mostly, they sit idle. But I like to think that they house the spirit of Harry Partch and that he still craves that corporeal connection between music and musician.                

Thanks to preservers of the light, so to speak, such as Danlee Mitchell and Dean Drummond, Harry Partch’s torch still burns bright. As recently as 2007, a full scale performance of Delusion of the Fury was mounted in New York City, in collaboration with the Japan Society. The performance was favorably reviewed by the New York Times. Not that Partch would have cared. His mode was never to bend his vision to please or appease. He created as he lived his life, with uncompromising vision. The closing paragraph of his essay on musical taste The Umbilical Cord Still Vibrates offers much towards clarifying his hopes and dreams for the consumption of art and music in America. In it, he states that “now and then someone comes forth with a blast about politics, or about art, architecture, or playwriting that is distinguished by candor and perception, and jars us out of our comfortably boring ruts” (The Umbilical Cord Still Vibrates 186). Was Harry Partch one of these “someones”? In my estimation, it would not be a stretch to think so.

Finally, as we continue to explore the offerings left by “the privileged prophets (who) emerge from the protective cloak of his particular modern specialty,” we can, in Partch’s own words, “discover that humanity has more than one music” (The Umbilical Cord Still Vibrates 186). In short, it is our responsibility to listen with open ears to those that are comfortable creating outside of the constraints of rules and traditions. We have very few chances in this homogenized world to appreciate the rarity of a true genius like Harry Partch while he is alive. The next time someone like him comes along, let’s hope we don’t miss our chance.

Works Cited

Partch. "Photographs of Instruments Built by Harry Partch and Heard in His Recorded Music." Gate 5 Records, June 1962.

Partch, Harry. An unedited interview with Harry Partch Edwin Gordon. n.d.

—. "Liner Notes." Seventeen Lyrics of Li Po. n.d.

Partch, Harry. "The Umbilical Cord Still Vibrates." Dunn, David, editor. Harry Partch: An anthology of critical perspectives . Amsterdam: Harwood Academic Publishers, 2000. 186.

Works Referenced

—. Bitter Music. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1991.

—. Genesis of a Music. New York: De Capo Press, 1974.

 All images are borrowed and property of the original artist.