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.