| Concert Hall |
Keith Rowe, Rajesh Mehta, and Rohan de Saram Improvised Performance
Cello Sound Check.
Trumpet Sound Check.
Rowe sitting behind his table of objects.
Web Streaming team are set up in the corner.
“…there was one time when someone turned up at the end of the night, and at the end of the concert, just helped us pack up…”
“…one or two really belligerent people… I don’t need that anymore.”
“We’d like to welcome Keith Rowe, Rajesh Mehta, and Rohand de Saran…”
Lights are switched off.
Near silence. Some air conditioning.
The performance begins.
Rowe emits whooshy electromagnetic washes.
Muted trumpet. Closed to open.
The sound is a mixture of acoustic sounds and amplified sounds from two huge Genelec monitor speakers.
Crack, snickle, from Rowe. Joggle pickup up.
K – K DOnk. Fiddle Fiffle Ckik.
Trumpet slide – the trompet? Muted like wah-wah.
Crackle – crackle…glitch
Cello – lo lo drone
A sound like wind from Rowe. A battery powered fan like a mini distorted helicopter.
Hybrid trumpet – opening frequencies.
Volume threshold increase.
There is some slight interest in the contrast between Rowe’s knob twiddling and consumer noiseplay with the meditative cello and the experimentally tubed bugle boy.
Bab bab bab. Trumpet as Drumpet.
Crackle creatures from the guitar neck. A slight pumping of a volume pedal.
Trumpet like passing propeller.
Cello pushing quavers, suggesting a chase sequence?
Rowe tunes into the communication ether. Radio static between the units in pursuit.
An insect buzzes against the hot-hot windscreen.
The trumpet helicopter passes overhead.
Disembodied voices demand guidance.
“Where is Bernhard?”
Fade to Super-8 noize of a summer field.
Flicker, flicker, white out of summer sun.
The bleeding body lies under summer heat.
Exposed nerve endings twitching in white more heat.
Subject through teared up eyes.
Brain stem exposed to gentle breeze.
Where is he? What happened?
Fizz. Fizz. Distant sirens / sirens close.
I don’t know.
Twitch. Twitch. Raw electricity
Christ, please help me. I think I’m dying.
Ga goo – goo. I’m becoming a baby.
Snatches of piano lessons in the drawing room.
Comical toy trumpets.
Fratured melodies. I’m sure I know this song.
Materd Frelod. I’m sure I’m now this song.
Actref olemsidi. I’m ss.s I.s .sss.ss.s.ss
Am I being moved?
Something is moving against my skin.
A laugh from the audience.
A continued buzz in the Genelecs.
High Harmonic. A call for attention.
A squiggle of new life.
Is this the sound of life?
A background pulse of theme begins.
The universe opens out to me.
High harmonic. A call to life.
Quick cut back into the darkened and quietened theatre space.
A trumpet with tubing and a lighting frame attached is sounding a high harmonic.
The cello responds.
Rowe – alone with his broken noises bzzzzzzzzz.
The battery powered fan brushes against pickups or strings.
Increase in volume threshold, from what was approaching near silence.
Strange subtones and solar winds.
Ba – da da dah dab a dah – cello
Scrunch – scrunh
Buzzbell overtone from Rowe.
Hysterical cello fingers.
Now a calm drone.
I am reminded of nothing.
Trumpet swell and cello insects.
Small sine type wave.
Squiggly glic glic from Rowe.
Small sine wave meets bass tubed trumpet.
Harmonic overtone series from cello.
Wahh whaa. Baby cry from trumpet.
Cello bass drone.
Rowe turns something on.
He picks something up. Skrayp.
I wonder when he’ll use his electric toothbrush.
Cello low harmonics.
Muted trumpet suggests a higher place.
Crackle crackle schwa schwa.
The trumpet is sad.
Ooo-ooo- wh. So is the cello.
“Hello”, it says, “Can you make me laugh?”
The musicians stand defeated.
Rowe’s machines continue to sound.
The cello adds a comment, “but…but…but, I am too”.
Rowe’s toy helicopters are ready to napalm the guitar fields.
The cello plays a death song.
A trumpet spatial sweep marks bass feedback swells.
Rowe: scribble scribble scratch. He appears to be fixing an old timepiece, being cooled in his garden shed by a 99p battery powered fan. Oblivious to all around him.
The cello plays a death song.
Many in the audience have their eyes closed. Beautific. Some look incredulous. Others look around as I do.
The artists continue to fumble around, in search of what, I neither know nor care.
An attractive space though, and some pretty comfy chairs.
Apart from air conditioning; silence.
Rowe looks up.
The artists smile.
The audience applauds.
The artists stand awkward.
The applause ends.
Thompson : “That’s fine”.