tone filth

Three strong solo sets tonight from Naomi Joy [violin], C. Spencer Yeh [violin, vocals], and Justin Meyers [analog synthesizer], at Art of This Gallery in Minneapolis. I was unable to get a photo of Ms. Joy with my humble Kodak.

Art of This Gallery has not renewed their lease, and will vacate the present venue on August 31, 2010. The future for the Tuesday Night Improvisation Series, held on alternate Tuesdays at the gallery for the past two years, is uncertain.

Baltimore-based cellist Audrey Chen will be among the last performers at the current venue, appearing July 20th in her duo with percussionist Luca Marini [KAMAMA].












Justin Meyers


















C. Spencer Yeh


My thanks to artists David Peterson and John Marks, the partners who have maintained the gallery since its inception, and the volunteer music curator, Casey Deming. They have made it possible for many musicians, familiar with the hard scrabble of finding venues for their music, to receive hospitality, an attentive audience, and gas money.

I almost expect to be remembered as a chair

On June 22, Milwaukee-based percussionist Jon Mueller came to Minneapolis and performed his roughly 30 minute piece I almost expect to be remembered as a chair, for snare drum and processed gongs. It was an incrementally gathering storm of ringing overtones and dense, metallic partials, rising to a howl before returning to silence. Very satisfying stuff, apparently an augur of things to come on his imminent release, The Whole, on Type Records. Stay tuned for that- Mueller is a musician who makes the most abstract music really sing.















photos: Allison Goin

motubachii

My review of the Annette Krebs/Taku Unami release on Erstwhile Records, motubachii, will appear very soon in the excellent online music journal, Paris Transatlantic. Please look for it there.
I have found the discussion about motubachii pretty unsatisfying, as most of what I have read is preoccupied with how it was made, and little about what it evokes.
I am pleased to return to publishing in PT after five years, and want to thank PT's indefatigable editor and reviewer, Dan Warburton, for his invitation-cum-cajoling that I do so.


Photo: Yuko Zama

R.I.P. Fred Anderson

March 22, 1929 ~ June 24, 2010

I attended his 77th birthday jam at the Velvet Lounge, the sing-along conducted by Nicole Mitchell standing on a bar chair.

Condolences to all those, and they are many, touched by him.

Thank you for the music, sir.

For Jon Abbey

Then there was Philip Guston. He was the arch crank. Very little pleased him. Very little satisfied him. Very little was art. Always aware in his own work of the rhetorical nature of the complication, Guston reduces, reduces, building his own Tower of Babel and then destroying it.
~ Morton Feldman, Give My Regards To Eighth Street


The purpose of music is to quiet the mind, thus rendering it susceptible to divine influences.
~ John Cage

when the idea has disappeared

How do you differentiate, when making evaluative judgments, between a musician producing strong work in a specific lineage, and a musician being merely derivative? How do you define, and privilege, innovation over the extension of a tradition? How, for example, is pianist John Tilbury deemed brilliant, even while nearly every critical response to his work contains the apt signifier Feldmanesque, while many other improvisers are regarded less kindly for their decision to essentially continue working through a self-limiting area of sound?















[Georges Braque, Man With A Guitar, 1911]

The century-old squabble, to place this question in the context of visual art, over whether Georges Braque or Picasso authored the Cubist revolution came to mind, as I researched the guitarist John Russell and found, again and again, guitarist Derek Bailey in nearly every entry. I am far from an art historian, but I think one thing is clear- Braque was well underway in improvising against the hold Cezanne and other antecedents had on his approach to painting, when he met Picasso. That encounter served as equal parts apprenticeship, catalyst and, eventually, co-creation of new possibilities. As Braque moved beyond the orbit of Picasso, he came to this idea- the painting is finished, Braque said, when the idea has disappeared. At some point in any apprenticeship, the student may develop beyond the original idea and conceptual approach of his teacher. His work is his work, when the idea disappears.
















[Picasso, Man With A Guitar, 1913]

London-based guitarist John Russell has performed, organized festivals, and articulated his ideas about free improvisation for 40 years. He is well represented by a discography that includes some celebrated releases; for many, the most recent gem is the reissue of the sole available recording of the ensemble News From The Shed. This 1989 quintet date is now regarded as a seminal work in the transition for several of its members from the discursive, dialogical and, as one of its participants [trombonist Radu Malfatti] has it, on-and-on-going gabbiness of much free improvisation, to something new- a branch of improvisation that jettisons gabbiness, dialogue and high speed reactions, for a reassessment of the uses of elements like silence, erasure of foreground/background, and a heightened sense of attunement, to reference Malfatti again, to the lull in the storm.

I focus on this particular project, out of all those Russell had been involved with in the nearly two decades preceding News From The Shed, for a reason. While three of his fellows from the quintet- Malfatti, Phil Durrant, and John Butcher- would gradually move further into the radically quieter, less virtuosic and uncluttered area of improvisation called, variously, reductionist, lower-case and EAI, Russell would continue to hone and meliorate the basic elements heard across the decades in his approach- empathic, dialogical, interactive free improvisation; yes, often garrulous, using high-speed reactions and by now familiar extended techniques to draw forth any and every sound from his acoustic guitars. The collective sound of that ensemble was a fulcrum for some to leap into a new field, and for Russell to continue plumbing the more familiar ground established many years earlier in his association with guitarist Derek Bailey. I am reactive, Bailey stated more than once, and Russell's plumb-line, extending a true vertical of free improvisation, is reactive as well.















[Derek Bailey]

As I said earlier, I did some surveying of the writing about Russell on the internet; culled from reviews of records and live performances, whether enthusiastic or indifferent, the shadow of Bailey falls across nearly everything I read. In the years since Russell left his former teacher's orbit, whom he received lessons from in the early 70's, he has developed the germinal Bailey approaches-plectrum scrapes and string rasps, above-the-nut plinks, rapid successions of alternating harmonics, percussive chord attacks, and dense, dark harmonies. Anyone, whether intimate or merely acquainted with Bailey's guitar sound, can identify the elements in Russell's approach.

Russell has not remained, however, in that orbit. His approach to the guitar, exclusively acoustic since 1977, engages areas of sound possibilities with greater patience, lingers longer to develop a sound, permits much more silence, clarifies notes and tones through fragmentation and splintering; he reduces and settles, as much as he agitates and roils. In a way I do not believe we ever play music, but are sometimes lucky to get close to it, Russell once stated in an interview, and personally I find that free improvisation specific to a time and place is the best way to do this.












[John Russell]

Russell gets close to the music in his duet with cellist Martine Altenburger, titled Duet, released in 2010 on Another Timbre. Duet is a live performance from a 2008 festival in France, edited into five tracks. The sound is excellent, warm and intimate. Wood and wire are heard with clarity, and the silences and rests sound equally live.










[Martine Altenburger]

Cellist Altenburger is a new name to me, and most certainly to most of you as well. She is conservatory trained, but leaped into a pool of improvisers around 1989 that included Michel Doneda and Le Quan Ninh. Her name appears on only a few releases, despite Ms. Altenburger's consistent involvement with performance events for over 20 years. She moves between performances of Cage and Scelsi, and dates like Duet, in which she scrabbles and sings on the cello, engaging Russell confidently and, at times, mimetically. She pulls a wide range of sounds from the cello, pizzicatto as well as her rich, singing bow work. I do not hear either musician employ extended techniques irrelevantly, or in a show-boating fashion. Rather, Duet is another specific time and place for Russell and Altenburger to push out beyond the received ideas, into conference, engagement, and occasionally, bracing and beautiful confluence. The price of the ticket is met, for me, in the concluding several minutes of track 4, as the duo entwine Altenburger's keening, melancholy cello line, with Russell's odd, strummed folk chords, repeated just long enough to invoke an ancient song.

Duet isn't for anyone insistent on hearing a new innovation in every release; it is for ears that value, as Milo Fine titled his 1977 release, the constant extension of inescapable tradition.

Or, as Braque said a little earlier in time,
Progress in art does not consist in reducing limitations, but in knowing them better.



Radu Malfatti quotes from his Paris Transtlantic interview in February, 2001.

unfettered by fear

Happy 65th birthday, Aung San Suu Kyi, our imprisoned Nobel winner.
To a free Burma.

It would be difficult to dispel ignorance unless there is freedom to pursue the truth unfettered by fear. With so close a relationship between fear and corruption it is little wonder that in any society where fear is rife corruption in all forms becomes deeply entrenched.

~ Daw Aung San Suu Kyi

the great ecstasy of the drummer mueller

I first heard Jon Mueller live in 2005 at the Acadia Cafe in Minneapolis, in the trio Nom Tom. With fellow psychoacoustic adventurers/ improvisers Jack Wright and Carol Genetti, Mueller coaxed and caressed an improbable array of sounds from an amplified snare drum. The trio was balanced, nuanced and, whatever one made of their sound world, taut with that too rare energy generated by mutual, acute listening.

I next heard him in 2008 kicking ass in the intricately structured rock band Collections of Colonies of Bees, their sonic maximalism and guitar-driven melodies a far cry from Nom Tom's low-volume/high-intensity interplay.

Along the way I acquired numerous releases involving Mueller in several potent projects, my favorite area being his three duo recordings with Jason Kahn. One involves the two percussionists playing paper [Papercuts, a 2004 release on Mueller's superb, now defunct imprint, Crouton Records]. This year Mueller and Kahn had their duo recording Phase released as a digital album on the Flingco Sound System label, a 39 minute slab of metallic shimmer and pink noise, edited and post-produced from live recordings. Mueller and Kahn continue to mine highly detailed, carefully shaped music from what, heard casually, sounds like pretty simple drone works.
















To disabuse anyone following Mueller's work of any lingering notion he is a respecter of taxonomy, there is the 2007 solo drum release Metals, an ecstatic, strophic blast of metal drumming that can induce trance states in the listener, another iteration in Mueller's ongoing exploration of how sound creates states of quietude, one-pointed alertness, and ecstasy. These explorations are extended through both improvised and composed forms by Mueller, the solo drum format being a current concern.

Mueller will be in Minneapolis on June 22nd at Art of This, a venue for experimental music, performing a solo drum piece entitled I almost expect to be remembered as a chair. This latest project, which Mueller intends to perform exclusively through the fall of 2010, is an augur of the soon-to-be-released The Whole, on Type Records.

I have enjoyed both brief conversations and email exchanges with Mueller over the past several years, struck by his unaffected, articulate enthusiasm for sound exploration, the elements of performance situations, and his advocacy for the ideas and projects of his fellows.

Mueller is after something that the drums serve and deliver, something shared with the listener, that roils and teems throughout his various projects. It manifests in different sorts of energy and sound choices, from the micro-sound of manipulated paper, to the pummeling patterns of his metal work outs. It sounds, to this listener, like he is always attuned to the ecstatic dimension of music, working with the wave-patterns, overtones and textures of the drum, resonant and visceral, playing inside both the mind and sternum. It is a great pleasure when a musician pulls from your head and your gut. Check out Mueller's developing drum work, whether solo or collaborative, for yourself.

R.I.P. Bill Dixon

imminent

I have just returned from visiting family in Iowa. New writing about new music will appear shortly.
Thanks for reading, and a shout out to my reader in Tehran.

see a thing a thousand times

I am driving to Cedar Rapids, Iowa tomorrow morning. the town I fled in 1979. My last trip there was in 2001, to bury my niece Jenny. She was found dead at age 27 and buried the week before 9/11. I will visit her sister and brother, whom I spent a lot of time with when we were all younger.

Following college and several of the usual crack-ups that attend life, I moved to Minneapolis. I have been here since. I have visited Cedar Rapids several times, the occasion, as often as not, being a death. Each visit I have had another grave to sit at- my mother's, Jenny's, buried without design about 300 feet apart. My father died in 1975, age 51, but is buried in the veteran's cemetery of Springfield, Missouri, probably a pilgrimage too far this go round.












In June 2008, the Cedar River, which bisects the town, crested at 31 feet, flooding 10 square miles of Cedar Rapids; this resulted in several thousand of its 130,000 residents being displaced or homeless. There are still hundreds of FEMA trailers in devastated neighborhoods. 1,500 properties were scheduled for demolition. 2.5 billion dollars of infrastructure damage and 1,500 lost jobs later, I am visiting my remaining family. It was past surreal seeing the town where I ripped and ran for two decades getting the CNN crisis-of-the-week play.

My antipathy for the town is long past, tied to my misspent youth there.

I plan also to see two men, each 88 years old, who are part of that past. One is my ex-father-in-law, whom I met in 1978, now living in an assisted-living home.
The other is the bandleader who employed my wild father, a gifted, self-destructive guitarist, in his working band for about 15 years. If for no other reason, he should be granted sainthood for shepherding that band, a sextet that lived on a tour bus much of my youth, through the usual alcohol-fueled, skirt-chasing, divorce-wracked hijinks. The stories he can tell are legion; I called him, after not talking to him for 40 years, and asked if he'd share a cup of coffee with me. He said yes without missing a beat. He lost his wife some years back. He is the only person alive I have contact with who knew my father.

The real practice of what is called zen is little more [what can you add?] than being fully present to what's happening here and now. I have spent several nights this week, for the first time in many years, sifting through shoe boxes of photos of my nieces, living and dead, my nephew, my sons, my mother and father. Breathing in Cedar Rapids, which is, of course, memories of Cedar Rapids.

This is what Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche called nostalgia for samsara. Nothing wrong with going home again, viewed in that light. Nostalgia for samsara means a longing, even an orientation, for that peculiar sorrow that is an admixture of recalling painful experiences, and missing good experiences. In sum, everything but this moment, here and now.

So, I'm setting out to visit a couple of old men, surely for the last time, touch a few graves, and look, for the thousandth time, on Cedar Rapids. Maybe I will see it.



I have to see a thing a thousand times before I see it once.

~ Thomas Wolfe, You Can't Go Home Again

what seems conceit

Have compassion for everyone you meet
even if they don't want it. What seems conceit,
bad manners, or cynicism is always a sign
of things no ears have heard, no eyes have seen.
You do not know what wars are going on
Down there where the spirit meets the bone.

~ Miller Williams, Compassion

sounds of science

Serendipity and a little research yield the damndest things, on your way to writing about this music.

It turns out I first heard Ernst Karel in 1991 when he was a 21 year old trumpeter playing under the alias Ernst Long. I was entering a hiatus, at the onset of that new decade, from listening to free jazz/improv, burnt out following a decade and a half of unchecked avidity and unchecked vinyl consumption. I was checking out a little rock music for the first time in a long while, which led to the Seattle bands Green River, the Melvins, the fantastic Screaming Trees and the Puccini of that scene, Soundgarden.
Soundgarden's Badmotorfinger was in frequent rotation that year. The trumpet player on that date-Ernst Long, a.k.a Ernst Karel.

The trajectory from serving as a session musician on that date, to his current gig as the manager for the Sensory Ethnography Laboatory and Film Study Center at Harvard, is undoubtedly worth charting. The trumpet prevailed throughout the ensuing 18 or so years, part of Karel's instrumentation in the excellent improvising duo EKG, his long-standing collaboration with Kyle Bruckmann. I first heard EKG about 5 years ago, and have very much enjoyed the three releases under that name since then. They are a genuinely electro-acoustic partnership, Bruckmann contributing oboe and English horn, as well as analogue electronics, Karel moving between trumpet and electronics. Erasure [the lines drawn between composition and improvisation, between orchestral and electronic sound sources] is their unfussy metier, and they have established a small, superlative body of recorded work.












The trumpet cannot be found in Karel's 2010 releases, Heard Laboratories [And/Oar], or Falter 1-5, Karel's duo with Annette Krebs [Cathnor]. Karel has varied interests in sound exploration, and there is no place for his playing at all in Heard Laboratories. So what is he up to, sans trumpet, prowling the research labs of Harvard with carodid mics and inarguably acute ears?

Heard Laboratories presents Karel the researcher, documentarian and abstract musician, foregrounding the sounds of science-the sounds of the labs, the frequently goofy looking, Grade B sci-fi apparatus that conducts the research carried on at Harvard, and, as intermittently as the co-equal sounds of tamarins getting their cages cleaned, or the jarring burst of a telephone ringing, the transient sounds of the humans doing the research. With an equanimity and dispassion that would please Cage, all of these sounds are captured, unprocessed, then edited into five pieces.

When I say Karel was prowling, I mean it-only one track [an in situ recording of the cognitive evolution lab] involved a stationary mic. The other pieces were realized with Karel wielding hand-held mics, threading his way through rooms rarely visited by anyone outside of their specialized resident researchers, much less someone documenting the physical process that undergirds everything from chemistry labs, an MRI room, and, most distressingly for this listener, the squeals and cries of monkeys in the cognitive evolution laboratory.

It is Karel the researcher, who once aimed his mics at the sounds of Kerala in South India, doing doctoral research in the anthropology of sound, now micing his colleagues at Harvard for our listening...pleasure? Is there an intention beyond whatever pleasure is yielded by the raw sounds themselves? I have not asked Karel this directly, wanting to hear Heard Laboratories for myself before reading what he might have to say. It is one of several questions that arose for me as I listened through these five pieces.

And assuredly one of the fundamental questions raised by this sort of work, this blending of the abstract and the documentary. I am, however, almost completely unversed in theory and discussions about field recordings, so I get to tease all this out "unscarred", as a friend has it, "by formal training."

Does foregrounding sounds typically unheard or passed by without our attending to them necessarily result in sounds that merit our attending to them, much less music? Of course not. The highest concept cannot offset sounds that do not engage us, whether by prepossessing us in the cognitive realm, or in a more visceral and intuitive way. Karel's concept, as I take it anyhow, is that there is something engaging and gripping in the most quotidian and therefore ignored sounds in our environs. What Karel does is present these environments-from an egocentric perspective, the frame around our self-centered worlds- with a little editing, for our consideration.

Well, Karel comes across as both the Gregory Bateson of EAI [Bateson was immensely popular with myself and the non-anthropology students I hung out with, his meta-koans perfect for our stoned, close attentions], and, perhaps more apposite, much like verite film documentarians who make you intimate with previously unknown worlds. In this sometimes thrumming, sometimes plangent sound world, sentience and science cross fade; animal cries and yelling humans, the mechanized rhythm of an MRI [a claustrophobia-inducing sound many of us are familiar with], the ambiences of academia. The phototonics lab [track 5] evokes the industrial drones of Eraserhead.

Then there are the animal labs. Interestingly, there is a statement found on the And/Oar page for this release that reads
The work does not take a position with respect to what is documented, and neither endorses nor criticizes the research programs of the laboratories which granted access.

Clearly this statement of artistic neutrality on what is documented by Karel anticipates possible questions about the role of the artist and the label on the ethical/political/social dimensions of what is documented. Again, I refrained from querying either Karel or And/Oar label head Dale Lloyd prior to this, wanting to hear Heard Laboratories for myself and reflect on some of these dimensions of this sort of sound work. I know Lloyd has become even more committed to And/Oar focusing on location recordings and field studies, saying the imprint will ...contribute to breaking down the long held beliefs of what can be considered as music...expanded to include all sounds that can be enjoyed for various reasons.

Does Karel realize this intention here?

Splendidly, to my ears. There is immense serenity, dark and unsettling goings on, and the simple hum of efficiency captured in these five pieces. These are environments previously unmet, fully alive and frequently mysterious. As for Karel's editing, the shaping of these unprocessed sounds recalls Truman Capote's line, I believe more in the scissors than I do in the pencil. Heard Laboratories is a strong statement, released by a strong label committed to documenting artists who hear music in their own, immediate spheres.

But as Reading Rainbow host Levar Burton said, following every endorsement of the children's books he presented to his young audience- You don't have to take my word for it... read it for yourself. You might find a whole other set of concerns arise, including how is this music? Should the documentarian be neutral in those rooms? Or none of these.

And I didn't miss the trumpet once.



Heard Laboratories can be ordered here.
Photo of Karel by Susanna Bolle.

swamped as though by a giant wave

A Wave is really a love poem. ~ John Ashbery [1]

As with rocks at low tide, a mixed surface is revealed,
More detritus [...] And the mind
Is the beach on which the rocks pop up [...]
They explain
The trials of our age, cleansing it of toxic
Side-effects as it passes through their system [...]
But there are no fractions, the world is an integer
Like us... [2]


I turn to another Michael Pisaro composition, the third written about here in as many months.
Like its two predecessors, the 2007 composition a wave and waves is intimate and interdependent with a particular poem by a great poet- July Mountain rooted in what turned out to be Wallace Stevens' final poem; black, white, red, green, blue/(voyelles) derived from Rimbaud's luminous verse; and now the analogous poem for Pisaro's concern with confounding the small and the large [3], Ashbery's 21 page stream-of-consciousness, alternately rueful and surrealy comic unfurling of memory, A Wave.

A wave and waves bears a few other similarities to the aforementioned Pisaro works; all three pieces are realized via Pisaro's partnership with instrumentalists [guitarist Barry Chabala on black, white, red, green, blue, percussionist Greg Stuart on July Mountain and a wave...] who seem to meet his ideas and intentions with the sort of simpatico, intuitive musicianship heard in the strongest encounters between improvising musicians; both July Mountain and a wave... are sound worlds in which Pisaro doesn't privilege one instrument/sound source over another, so that a vibraphone is co-equal with grains of rice, or airplane drones and sine waves meld in the ear; in Chabala's evocative guitar work on black..., to continue the inventory of Pisaro's non-duality in musical matters, notes and silence share space without preponderance; and, more difficult to articulate with specific pointers, all three releases are musical manifestations of the idea that the whole of a thing being considered [or with Pisaro's results musically, considered and enjoyed] can best be grasped by attention to the myriad details assembled giving that whole its force, vitality and, well, largeness.

Pisaro loves working with small details on a large scale, creating gentle but unmistakable momentum from meticulous, granular sounds. From my perspective, Pisaro sits on an ongoing list of creative individuals whose ideas and sensibilities I call buddhist-without-being-buddhist- or, in some examples, more-buddhist-than-avowed-buddhists. This is, obviously, a personal and extra-dimension, but I find the basic approach of Pisaro to have a great affinity with some aspects of buddhist [and Taoist] philosophy.














So breaking thoughts and feelings down into molecules of sound, as Ashbery does in verse form, Pisaro's waves, pulses and striations of sound carry forward in two 35 minute blocks, each prefaced by a minute of silence, and separated by four minutes of silence. The sound, in this realization, is 100 waves of percussion, the sources for the sound waves selected and assembled by Stuart, with a self-evident regard and care for each [yes, each and every] one of the one hundred percussion events; the percussive characteristics, timbral qualities and integrity of Stuart's choices are remarkable. The waves are of strict duration, composed so as they overlap and swell into endless patterns and crescendos.

Like Ashbery's cascading poem, the waves are contemplative, but never without the detritus of a life lived. Like Ashbery too, small events, epiphanies and recurrences surge forth, overlapping and cresting, no beginning, no terminus point. It takes time for this sort of assemblage to flow, so Ashbery takes his sweet, 21 pages of time; Pisaro's consideration for the listener is manifest in the four minute breather between the first wave [100 consecutive 20- second sections], and the second waves [entitled a haven of security and unreachable].

Like the overall effect of July Mountain [as well as that of the stunning four volume series, Transparent City], a wave sounds almost free of the complex, precisely scored conceptual thought Pisaro brings to every new work. At the risk of merely reiterating the observations I articulated in the July Mountain review, this is the great pleasure I take in Pisaro's work. He creates living, breathing worlds that sound organic, effortless, and unsullied by the heavy hand of a composer. I'd hazard a guess that Cage would never feel pushed by Pisaro's compositions, for all their elaborate crafting and [Stevens, Rimbaud, Ashbery, zen] difficult sources and origination.

Stuart, in like-minded collaboration with Pisaro, has created 70 minutes of 100 percussion events with nary an explicit sound of a drum stick stroke. If you come away from this review without curiosity as to how a large scale work for 100 percussionists/or 100 over-dubbed percussion parts can be so liquid, more wave than solidity, I have let you down.

Pisaro and Stuart are mapping a sound world of great clarity, even luminosity, joining complex scores and a radical attunement to the most elemental music possible- mountains, waves, cities, even, in an early Pisaro work [mind is moving], thought itself.

But there are no fractions, writes Ashbery, the world is an integer, like us.

I continue to delight in how Pisaro and his amazing collaborators throw it together, pitches and patches, waves and silence.


a wave and waves was released in 2010 on the Cathnor imprint, in a lovely, challenging -to-shelve, edition; with pith notes by both Pisaro and Stuart, and sharp design/graphics by the enigmatic Olaf Oxleay, and Pisaro.

Photos of Folly Beach and some of Stuart's instruments for awaw are both, I believe, courtesy of Stuart.

[1] Ashbery, in an interview with John Tranter, in the April 1985 edition of Jacket, a small literary magazine.

[2] From A Wave, found in Ashbery: Collected Poems 1956-1987, The Library of America. The title of this post is also from the great poem.

[3] Michael Pisaro, on his intentions for a wave and waves, from the Cathnor liner notes.

R.I.P. Kazuo Ohno