Marilyn Crispell (solo) - Jazz: Now Sep 11 2008 - The Studio, Sydney Opera House
From where I sat, I couldn't see her hands...
It mattered not.
On Thursday night Marilyn Crispell approached the piano not as if it was a musical instrument, but as if it was a mound of clay ready for sculpting. Hunched over and with eyes barely open Ms. Crispell cast an imposing image of olden magics, as she commenced to draw the very essence of her music from the piano with slowly clenching hands. Immediately every movement was full of power and concentration and an air of secrecy. I found myself drawn to watching the glimpsed reflections in the underside of the piano lid, the silhouette cast on the rear wall of the performance space by a sole yellow light, even the patterns of reflected colour on the performer's own face and in every space I saw the same thing. Marilyn Crispell was sculpting. Creating a creature of unknown qualities as if from nothing.
Starting the first of two extended pieces with pairs of close chords in the mid-lower register, each of Marilyn's hands worked in independent, fluid rhythm, each hand alternating turns to find a comfortable position and pattern before the other scarpered off to explore available contrasts. Occasionally a hand would run wild along the entire length of the keyboard in a great cascading flurry before it would be wrested under control to return to a new steady holding position. And thence came the chord progressions. Somehow, from those basic, yet complex building-blocks emerged a symphony of chords, with Marilyn allowing variations explored to eventually settle into delicate patterns which belied their spontaneous conception. For all the world it was believable that this was a rich and fully formed written music, almost Gershwin-like in its consonant harmony, yet ultimately unlike anything ever heard before. At this point Marilyn Crispell's body changed too. No longer was she hunched over in secretive construction, now sitting high with shoulders back and relaxed posture, embracing with open arms the creature she had created.
And then she let it sleep. Slowly winding down to a small, beautiful melodic flourish, a sustained resonance, then nothing but an after-echo which I can still hear.
Allowing only enough time for brief applause, Marilyn launched straight into her second performance, again resuming the figure of a hunched, mysterious sculptor of nothing. The journey was noticeably different, but along a similar path, a substantially longer one too. I'd guess the first piece lasted around 18 minutes, the second maybe half an hour, but I wouldn't be surprised if that was completely wrong. While this event took place time itself ceased to follow rules.
The audience response was adoring if a little restrained. Marilyn looked utterly satisfied and complete, obviously very proud of what she had created. Yet she was coaxed back to the piano for a brief encore, a number completely different to the rest of the night, with hands skittering up and down the keyboard in fractured rhythm, like two mice joyfully at play. I'd say it lasted less than 90 seconds. Two minutes at the most. A sweet mint following a gourmet meal. Perfection.
What a treasure Marilyn Crispell is. If you get the chance to see her perform solo don't miss out for it is a truly unique and magical experience. I know I won't forget this night in a long, long time.
It mattered not.
On Thursday night Marilyn Crispell approached the piano not as if it was a musical instrument, but as if it was a mound of clay ready for sculpting. Hunched over and with eyes barely open Ms. Crispell cast an imposing image of olden magics, as she commenced to draw the very essence of her music from the piano with slowly clenching hands. Immediately every movement was full of power and concentration and an air of secrecy. I found myself drawn to watching the glimpsed reflections in the underside of the piano lid, the silhouette cast on the rear wall of the performance space by a sole yellow light, even the patterns of reflected colour on the performer's own face and in every space I saw the same thing. Marilyn Crispell was sculpting. Creating a creature of unknown qualities as if from nothing.
Starting the first of two extended pieces with pairs of close chords in the mid-lower register, each of Marilyn's hands worked in independent, fluid rhythm, each hand alternating turns to find a comfortable position and pattern before the other scarpered off to explore available contrasts. Occasionally a hand would run wild along the entire length of the keyboard in a great cascading flurry before it would be wrested under control to return to a new steady holding position. And thence came the chord progressions. Somehow, from those basic, yet complex building-blocks emerged a symphony of chords, with Marilyn allowing variations explored to eventually settle into delicate patterns which belied their spontaneous conception. For all the world it was believable that this was a rich and fully formed written music, almost Gershwin-like in its consonant harmony, yet ultimately unlike anything ever heard before. At this point Marilyn Crispell's body changed too. No longer was she hunched over in secretive construction, now sitting high with shoulders back and relaxed posture, embracing with open arms the creature she had created.
And then she let it sleep. Slowly winding down to a small, beautiful melodic flourish, a sustained resonance, then nothing but an after-echo which I can still hear.
Allowing only enough time for brief applause, Marilyn launched straight into her second performance, again resuming the figure of a hunched, mysterious sculptor of nothing. The journey was noticeably different, but along a similar path, a substantially longer one too. I'd guess the first piece lasted around 18 minutes, the second maybe half an hour, but I wouldn't be surprised if that was completely wrong. While this event took place time itself ceased to follow rules.
The audience response was adoring if a little restrained. Marilyn looked utterly satisfied and complete, obviously very proud of what she had created. Yet she was coaxed back to the piano for a brief encore, a number completely different to the rest of the night, with hands skittering up and down the keyboard in fractured rhythm, like two mice joyfully at play. I'd say it lasted less than 90 seconds. Two minutes at the most. A sweet mint following a gourmet meal. Perfection.
What a treasure Marilyn Crispell is. If you get the chance to see her perform solo don't miss out for it is a truly unique and magical experience. I know I won't forget this night in a long, long time.
posted by Owen at 1:26 PM
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