Ondrej Smeykal: Didj from Another Dimension

I am reviewing the best didgeridoo player you have never heard of. On his second cd "Didgeridoo Solo II" the music drifts in like an archaic wave of consciousness, from a time before an egoic sense of self divided us from all that is, lulling us into a womb-like, but false, sense of security. I remember his tricking me like this at his show as well, waiting for my consciousness to drift back to the Dreamtime, before abruptly transporting me back to the 21st century with music shifting back and forth between duple and triple meter, but relaxed and natural as if were an 'of course' kind of an event. I know now that this was no trick, just infinite compassion on his part - he knew that if the cap were too soon blown off of my consciousness, that the rest of the show would be a wash.

Smeykal plays with the sonic dimensions of consciousness: small bits of melody are created which take up residence in the mind's ear even after they are no longer present in the sound structure itself. Close your eyes and you can imagine that something of a more modern ilk is occurring on the stage: house, drum and bass, Reich, Stockhausen... It seems impossible that this music, this soundscape is being created real-time on an instrument whose roots trace back over 10,000 years.

Impossible polyrhythms and molodies emerge from a primal drone. Smeykal mics his nose, so the breath can be used as another sound source - percussive and syncopated. Barks, growls, hoots - ancient didgeridoo language - are layered within complex rhythmic structures and laid skillfully within the overlying bed of sound whose relationship only multiple listenings can reveal.


I spoke with Ondrej after his last show here in the Bay Area. (I actually wanted him to sign his beautifully packaged, handmade [by Smeykal himself], embossed, woodcut adorned, cd's for me.) He is a humble, approachable, young man, endearing Czech accent, very sincere and appreciative. In the short time I had, I asked him about one of the pieces he played - one with long phrases in 7/4 and smaller phrases embedded within it, also in 7. (A mind-boggling feat in any musical medium, but on a didg, unbelievable.) His answer was simple. "It is simply breath," he said. "Every structure that emerges is based within natural cycles of breathing."

Smeykal embodies what I would see as a truly integral approach to music: complex layers of modernity which are transparent to an art form still in touch with the Dreamtime. Complex music theory and magical trance walk side by side, merging with one another, respectful of one another, and sharing each others' strengths, creating a music which transcends genre, place, even time. Seeing Smeykal is an opportunity which should not be missed. Alan Tower, a local didg master (http://alantower.net/), describes him as "a didg player from another planet". I would whole-heartedly agree and add that this music points to a mutation of consciousness which is the collective destiny - Integrality: a consciousness transparent to the Archaic, the Mythic, the Magical, and the Rational. Each held with equal weight in a sphere of timelessness. See him, listen to him, and be treated to the flavors of what is to come. (www.smeykal.com)

Dixie Chicken on Mofi

I came into Little Feat late, at least too late to see the original line-up live. Lowell George died in June of 1979 and his band had entered my aural space around 1980 or so. (St. Louis was not exactly a high traffic town for bands that were a bit off the beaten path). I owe a debt to my next-door neighbor - a year or so older than me - for my long friendship with Little Feat. I was one of those hungry record collectors, who could be propelled to near orgasm by a fresh sound, a new idea, a turn of phrase that bent my consciousness into some new configuration. (Thousands of recordings later, I can say truthfully that this fetish has remained unchanged; the eargasms are just harder to come by -as it were.)
Most likely I was busy de-seeding some crappy weed from the dealer in the big white two-story down the street when that song came blasting out of Andy's parent's stereo. "Dixie Chicken" was the obvious hit on the record. Hits usually met with my disdain. If it's popular, it can't be good was my paradigm at the time. My resistance meter went sky high. This was way too commercial for me. But the pot was still filled with seeds and hulls so I remained a captive audience. The rest of side 1 was excellent rock & roll, beautifully played, meticulously arranged. And then ... and then..."Kiss it Off" oozed out into the room. Like some thick, dangerous swamp, it crawled across the floor, up my pant leg and began to do its work. You could tell Lowell meant it when he sang: "You were holy and you made me wonder how/But you looked like a devil who would seize and shake you down/On the hopes of a tyrant/No one makes it over".

I was hooked. Maybe it was the pot, but by the time "Fat Man in the Bathtub" came on, my head was doing the white-man-bob, my fingers air-instruments galore and my imagination was basking in the dusky streetlamps of New Orleans - boozy and destructive. This was completely intoxicating music. I was way too young then to truly appreciate the complexity of this masterpiece. I think I may still be too young - because each and every time I listen to this album something new and beautiful reaches out of the speakers and opens my eyes to some new possibility. Andy claimed that Little Feat was his "all time favorite band". I balked at the time but I think I understand now... sorry Andy.

I now have the brand new, remastered, Mobile Fidelity Sound Lab version of Dixie Chicken in its third rotation of the day. I can practically smell that cheap Mexican pot now, a casserole stewing alchemically in the oven, because it is like hearing it all for the first time. Lowell George's scruffy face right here in my California living room weaving his voodoo music - that indescribable depth, humor, sincerity, and soul. Thanks Andy for opening my ears. Thanks Mofi for restoring this masterpiece to a sound that once again crawls across the floor and up my pant leg.

Buy it here: http://www.mofi.com/store/pc/viewPrd.asp?idproduct=161&idcategory=0#details

The Journey (a fictional tale)

The Journey
by: Paul McNees

Part I.
Thurston picked up his satchel and moved on. He had grown tired of the sounds of crickets and birds. But… Perhaps one more stop. Yes, here in this small thicket. The woods had grown extremely thick and dark (quite unlike his small florescent cubicle back in the city). Even though it was only mid-day he could feel the pressing presence of nighttime all around him. He glanced at his watch, yes, only mid-day. He gently set down his satchel upon a patch of moss and hid himself in the small thicket.
A small tunnel had formed at one end, which he only had to bend slightly at the hips to move his body through. He turned around and glanced back to whence he had come. His satchel sat cold and lonely, possibly shivering slightly, upon the small patch of moss. Thurston was suddenly filled with a deep sense of sorrow and pity at the sight of such a sad spectacle. It brought to mind a bitter memory, which he had lovingly stored away for future vindictiveness against some foe unawares.

File cabinet B: in all likelihood stored under T for Trauma. Subset C: childhood trauma.

Camera focuses on satchel. Move to extreme close-up. Satchel fills the screen. Camera fades back revealing braided rug, fine antique furniture. The pacifying sounds of ticking clocks swells but something overrides: Mother taunting child.

“Well if you’re gonna go, go!”
“Mamma I don’t really wanna go! I don’t wanna run away!”
“C’mon let’s go pack a bag for you…Let’s see, you’ll need socks, underwear…”
“Momma!”
Child is throwing articles out of the satchel as fast as Momma can pack them. Momma wins out. Bag is packed and Momma takes child by the hand and leads him to the front door.
“Momma!”
Child is in hysterics.
Door opens.
“Momma, NO!”
Satchel is set out on a dimly lit porch. Child is shoved out after it.
“Give us a call when you get settled in, OK?”
Momma closes door. Child begins to whimper.

Camera closes in on satchel. Fade to file cabinet where Childhood Trauma #106 is confidently stored away. File drawer is closed and Thurston peers out through a tangle of branches.

He feels safe in here. That ever-comforting womb-like appeal. He knows, however, as he did even then in progressive fetal stages, that he cannot stay in here forever. His satchel is waiting patiently for him as he exits the thicket. Thurston doesn’t think it was really afraid. He doesn’t believe that inanimate objects are capable of deep feelings such as fear. Fear is an emotion far too complex for a satchel. Yet he lifted it and cradled it in his arms like a newborn infant. Just like Momma held him when he was a little boy. Especially after Daddy had just beat him with the switch for being bad. That was when Momma held him the tightest. She would hold him until the bleeding on the backs of his legs stopped. It would always take a few days though for the welts to go away.
Thurston stood at the edge of the thicket and gazed down at the path he had chosen to follow. He rested his chin on his newborn satchel. That path was teeming with life. He could hear it and feel it. So much different from the city. The city did not contain so much life as much as it did just movement. Just people bustling here and there, to and fro. Carrying their little file cabinets in their heads. Their handy storage bins. Thurston grinned. When he grinned, his cheeks dimpled. He didn’t care to remember how many times in his 29 years someone had stuck a finger in those dimples. Uncle Tom had to have been the most frequent offender. Uncle
Tom always came to the house bearing gifts and laughter. The gift was usually liquor and the laughter – slightly hysterical. A certain look resided in his eyes that revealed something other than sanity. His brackish hysterics could turn to violent anger in the blink of an eye. And he always had his finger in Thurston’s dimple. Even when Uncle Tom molested Thurston, he commented about his dimples. “Don’t frown, Thursty!” he would say, and he would kiss Thurston’s little lips and fondle Thurston’s penis and buttox. Then Thurston would have to do the same thing to Uncle Tom until Uncle Tom would squirt his pearly white jism all over Thurston’s hand.
The thicket was behind him now.



❊❄❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊

I am Thurston’s father. Call me Leamish. My first name is of Armenian descent on my mother’s side. A grandmother of mine was raped, beaten and taken as a slave during the wars with the Turks. Her name, too, was Leamish. She was bought again by a wealthy English sailor who eventually fell in love with and married her. He became my grandfather. When I was a child I went by the name of Lee because of the embarrassment my female name caused me. I have raised my son, Thurston. as best I could. I gave him a man’s name.

❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊
Part II.

Mid-day broke unevenly into evening and, reaching his destination from a slightly circuitous route, Thurston knocked humbly upon the rotting wooden door. The woman, Thurston’s mother (aged, pathetic, rasping from years of cigarette aggravated emphysema) cautiously squeaked open the door and extended her withered arms in a declined invitation for a hug. Thurston had found this to be the best method for establishing the power structure immediately. Momma’s eyes swum in her head like opaque bubbles stuck in some peculiar, quite uninhabitable surroundings.
“You’re late”, she said – before hello, before how-have-you-been.
Power structure shifts.
Thurston recovers.
“Your expectations about my time of arrival were skewed mother. Not unlike the many other bizarre perceptions of your surroundings.”
Never give excuses. Always shift blame. Rule of power maintenance #1.
Silence.
Thurston peruses the room.
Mother: So how have you been?
Power remains stable
Thurston: Fine mother, fine. Missed you at the funeral.
Mother: Has that happened already? Note of surprise in voice, sardonic.
Thurston: Well…he died last week you know. We had to get him buried sometime now, didn’t we? We didn’t want him to just lie around and decompose. That would lack a certain nobility that I think he rather deserved.
Mother: Oh yes! Suicide is a terribly noble method of bringing a close to one’s life isn’t it. There is no question mark .
Thurston: Well it certainly ranks far above slowly rotting away in some stinking hovel out in the middle of nowhere with the sole purpose of providing one more disruptive odor to this already rather pungent world. All this said with the greatest calm and forced eye contact.

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I am Thurston’s father. Call me Ichabod. My mother was a prostitute, my father a sharecropper in eastern Prague. Both moved to England in 1945 at the end of the Great War. Five girls were born preceding myself. My mother died in childbirth whilst bringing me into the world. This saddens me. Afflicted with sclerosis of the liver and bad teeth, my father fled to the city to live the rest of his meager days in the accompaniment of other alcoholics and general failures. This also saddens me. I was raised by my oldest sister, who is, to this day unmarried. She sacrificed her life and her beauty for five waif siblings. This saddens me most of all. When I met Thurston’s mother, she was a seamstress in a clothing factory. She was a pitiable creature. I took her away from all that.

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Part III.

Leaving Momma standing, tears welling, autistic rocking, hands wringing. Walking into yard, down cellar steps. Dead leaves crunching underfoot.
Momma knitting death shawl.
(Still, those indefatigable traditions…Keeping the magic alive.)
Old door creaking open on hinges rusted, disintegrating.
Only the ghosts know the secrets of this cellar’s darkness.
Thurston thinking, “Bring back the sun. God damn the sun.”
The sun’s infinite pouring light only reminds him of this cellar’s darkness. It’s light spilling onto stairs with each step a little darker.
Momma blinded by tears – moving – sadness settling on the dusty furniture mingling uneasily with the anger.

Thurston’s satchel lying untended.

Thurston hoping to find an abatement of anger in this dark, moist cavern. He only finds fear. Standing for a moment he peers about him. Nothing. There is nothing here. Just rotting memories. Those memories that grow and change with our experience. The entropy is diffident. It can only transform. He knows he cannot find his answers here. The answers to his hatred – his hatred mingled with love and blindness. He lets his shoulders relax.

He
blows out
a breath
of air
as if
to
pollinate
the wind
with
his
troubled
soul.

He is in the bowels of his mother’s home. Swallowed. She marches around upstairs. He can hear her weeping. Her vile weeping. Her salty tears falling on the dusty hardwood floor. Liquid pain. If she died, would his burden be lifted? Would the cord be finally cut? Would he leave this house once and for all, not turning ‘round to see it diminishing in the shadows cast by trees?
Or would he carry
this pain to his grave,
once more covered by
the thickening leaves.



The sun had found the mouth of the cavern as it always did at this time of day. Thurston was annoyed by its peaceful consistency. It poured in its golden light displaced here and there by the dust stirred up by Thurston’s presence here. As he moved toward the light the dust parted before him. This was not the belly of the whale, Thurston thought. Nothing has changed. I am not closer to God.

❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆◆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆◆❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆

I am Thurston’s father. I am not known by any name. My mother was made of light and my father was made of stone. My rape came on the wind of an icy night in February. The night Thurston was born, the leaves fell from the trees and covered the ground in a tapestry of fire. The next day, the light shone brightly by the world was frozen on its axis. Thurston cried. For a fortnight he cried, unceasingly, filling his cradle with tears thick like the embryonic fluid that still dripped through the cracks of the floor beneath him.
His satchel had already been packed and stood patiently by his bed as Thurston lay floating peacefully in his own salty tears.
No photographs were taken of his childhood. No memories preserved. Though I was always there he never knew me.

❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❆❊❊❆❊❆❉❆❊❆❊❆❉❆❊❆❊❆❉❆❊❆❊❆❉❆❊❆❊❆❉

Part IV.

As Thurston appeared in the doorway to the living room, his mother was circling his satchel making a harsh, grating noise with her chaffed wrinkled hands – wringing them as if to rid herself of some nefarious residue.

“Stop that!”, Thurston cried and again more softly, “stop that.”

She stopped and stared at him like a scolded yet defiant dog. She was silent.
Thurston came toward her but they were divided by his satchel, which sat confidently upon the floor between them.
The light was beautiful now. Golden, soft. But it more angrily displayed the filth inside Momma’s unkempt little hovel.
Thurston reached forward with his right foot and slowly scooted the satchel aside until nothing divided him and his mother but internal walls. He reached out and took hold of his mother’s dry hands. They were much softer than he expected. He looked up into his mother’s face, which held interchangeably, fear and great sadness. He slowly brought her hands to his lips and gently kissed them. He rested his cheek for a moment on her trembling fingers and with infinite slowness released them. Without again looking up, he reached for his satchel and followed the sun’s rays toward the door. The dust floated like stars in the stillness. Momma stood and stared at the soft imprint of Thurston’s satchel in the dust. She returned to her knitting.

The door creaked and then was silenced by a soft



click.




Once outside


Thurston


breathed deeply the quickly cooling air.

The night awaited


him but he




knew his


way


well.