Living Ur Sonata: ZÄTT—THEMES 6, 12, 13, 14, 17
Rebecca is ranting, “Tilla lalla tilla lalla, Tilla lalla tilla lalla.” Our troupe--Urchestra—is midway through the Cadenza
Schwitters survives…as one of the most extraordinary performers of the century. When he [recited] his Primeval Sonata—a long poem made up entirely of wordless sounds—it was as if there had come into existence a completely new mode of human expression, by turns hilarious and terrifying, elemental and precisely engineered. Others dreamed of reconciling art and language, music and speech, the living room and the cathedral, the stage and the unspoiled forest. Schwitters had the sweep of mind not only to dream of these things, but to carry them out.
—John Russell, An Alternative Art, 1974
October 10th, 2009
Main Street Park Pavilion
Easthampton, Massachusetts
“Priimittii, Priimiititti, Priimiititti too, Priimiititti taa,” intones performance-poet and graphic journalist Rebecca Migdal, swinging her hair, swaying in her black-and-red Renaissance-fair gown.
Bailey, the toy poodle at our feet, growls.
Two cops who’ve pushed through the audience wave their arms.
“Priimiititti too, Priimiititti taa, Priimiititti tootaa, Priimiititti tootaa,” Rebecca insists. Eric Blitz’s ad-hoc punk percussion and DJ Glove’s guitar/tape-measure mash-up are demanding answers. Holyoke community organizer Pronoblem Baalberith’s PVC-pipe bass bubbles. Noise musician Bob Wilson’s toy-store keyboard jangles. Expressionist painter Denis Luzuriaga’s aloe-plant-operated synthesizers coo and belch. Hand-typeset printer Mitch Ahern’s homemade electroluxopipophone roars to life—then gives up its ghost.
Bailey is howling.
“Wrap it up,” one cop commands.
I lean my silver flute into the mic and expel a burst of free jazz. Priestess-of-Artemis Rebecca intensifies, “Priimiititti tuutaa, Priimiititti tuutaa, Priimiititti tootaatuu, Priimiititti tootaatuu.”
The second cop runs his hand across his throat. Rebecca responds, “Priimiititti tuutaatoo, Priimiititti tuutaatoo.”
Scrap-metal sculptor John Landino, who specializes in bolting books shut, abandons tuba, trumpet, and French horn, navigates our ten-member ensemble’s maze of amps, and crosses to greet the cops. “You officers comfortable? Something to drink?”
Rebecca declaims, “Tatta tatta tuutaa too, Tatta tatta tuutaa too.” Eric bangs his soup-pot. My flute punctuates the rising cacophony. Rebecca chants, “Tatta tatta tuiiEe tuiiEe, Tatta tatta tuiiEe tuiiEe. Tatta tatta tuiiEe tuiiEe, Tatta tatta tuiiEe tuiiEe.” Barking with vigor, Bailey strains his leash.
Landino catches my eye. “Andy, how much longer?”
Rebecca is ranting, “Tilla lalla tilla lalla, Tilla lalla tilla lalla.” Our troupe--Urchestra—is midway through the Cadenza, so, five minutes of this. The Finale will be three. I flash my fingers: we need five plus five minutes.
“Tilla lalla tilla lalla, Tilla lalla tilla lalla!”
“No,” shouts the first cop. “It’s after seven, you’re in violation. Stop!”
Pronoblem—a Yeti in green beast-helmet and brown-fur gown—crosses to join Landino’s negotiation. Temporary distraction.
Rebecca goes operatic, “Tuii tuii tuii tuii, Tuii tuii tuii tuii, Tee tee tee tee, Tee tee tee tee.” I add my baritone; we duet, “Tuii tuii tuii tuii, Tuii tuii tuii tuii.” I drop down as Rebecca glides up, “Tee tee tee tee, Tee tee tee tee. Tatta tatta tuiiEe tuiiEe, Tatta tatta tuiiEe tuiiEe.” Guitar, cymbals and electroluxopipophone amp discordantly. “Tatta tatta tuiiEe tuiiEe, Tatta tatta tuiiEe tuiiEe.”
Landino is winding his finger: pick it up. I gesture behind me, asking the group to cut volume. Into her mic, Rebecca whispers, “Tilla lalla tilla lalla, Tilla lalla tilla lalla, Tilla lalla tilla lalla, Tilla lalla tilla lalla.”
DJ Glove’s tape-measure screeches against his guitar.
I cough along, “Tuii tuii tuii tuii, Tuii tuii tuii tuii, Tee tee tee tee, Tee tee tee tee, Tuii tuii tuii tuii, Tuii tuii tuii tuii, Tee tee tee tee, Tee tee tee tee.”
The second cop yells, “Stop!”
Eric’s snare rolls.
I shout, “Ooo bee!”
DJ Glove’s tape measure snaps.
Rebecca echoes, “Ooo bee!”
Mitch’s electroluxopipophone roars.
I warn, “Ooo bee!”
Bailey howls. Eric bashes. Rebecca wonders, “Ooo bee?”
Bob flutters his keys. I double down, “Ooo bee!”
DJ Glove revs his electric sander. Rebecca moans, “Ooo bee.”
Bailey on hind legs, barks, barks, and barks.
I relent, “Ooo bee.”
Denis’s synth is rising. Rebecca cheers, “Ooo bee!”
We raise arms for silence, gesturing for the audience to join, altogether now, with, “Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.”
I call over to the cops, “Two minutes.”
They’ve calmed down. They’re not Nazis.