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Tortoise, Nobukazu Takemura & Aki Tsuyuko, Prefuse 73

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Somerville Theater
Somerville, Massachusetts
Tuesday, May 15, 2001

One can learn a lot about music simply by observing an audience. On May 15, a collection of twenty-somethings gathered for the Tortoise show at the Somerville Theater. The concert was, of course, sold out in this college town. Tortoise may not be a household name, but the band has mass appeal within the intellectual set, and especially among men. (Count yours truly in the latter category, with a postgraduate degree and a Y chromosome. Can't pretend otherwise, as much as I might like to.) The free-thinking independence of the audience was a perfect match for the intensely creative music of Tortoise and the clever inventiveness of Nobukazu Takemura. More on that subject later. Unfortunately, it didn't mesh at all with the opening act, which became painfully obvious as this first segment of the performance progressed.
Prefuse 73
The opening band at this show was Prefuse 73. I can't imagine a less appropriate group for this crowd. Take my word on this: you don't need to see Prefuse 73 perform, if you're in for anything like the experience I endured. (Skip ahead unless you're really interested in the gory details.) The band consisted of a computer guy, a DJ, and an MC. The MC was completely out of touch with his audience. At the start of the performance, he did some nice raps, quick-paced and dense, well-timed and well-executed. The problems developed when he insisted on audience participation. At various times, he instructed the crowd to hold their arms in the air, wave them back and forth to the beat, shout on command, and render applause after certain key words. Sorry, no can do: this was an independent-minded group, not a bunch of followers. When he started freestyling (and he made sure we understood the meaning of that term, with a painfully long definition), he let loose a steady stream of political correctness that took the progressive ideas of hip- hop to extremes of self-parody. "Boston! Are you excited to see Tortoise?" (Yes, thank you. The sooner the better.)
As for the rest of this group, the DJ really stood out in the talent department. Using only the basic tools of turntables and real-time effects, he took his few opportunities to perform and rendered some of the freshest spinning I've heard in a while. Unfortunately, he played such a subordinate role in the music that his work was mostly lost in the background. The computer guy triggered beats, worked the loops and effects, and generally made sure there was a steady groove going at all times. Unfortunately most of his material was pre-programmed, and there seemed to be very little "live-ness" to his portion of the performance. The Prefuse 73 you'll hear on record has a crisp studio edge which makes it a fun listen; the vocals in particular receive due electronic attention. But in live performance, the group was a bit sloppy. The vocals were performed "clean," with no live effects. The Prefuse 73 show, despite its best efforts, did not have an interactive feel— just the usual "fresh funky beats" with a few twists.

Nobukazu Takemura & Aki Tsuyuko

Things changed dramatically when Nobukazu Takemura and Aki Tsuyuko took to the stage. Performing on three laptops (two Powerbooks and a PC—the third machine presumably serving as a video monitor), they reduced music to its most fundamental elements. One had the sense that this was a recital—a concert performance—not a "gig." The crowd applauded politely and enthusiastically between pieces, but there was not much direct interaction during the performance itself. It seemed like the process of creation took priority over feedback and response.

Takemura's recorded work largely consists of abstract sample-collage pieces. Using loops, effects, and skipping noises, he builds towering sonic sculptures from a few simple interlocking pieces. Takemura's distinctive approach on record relies upon a continual process of re-assembly and mutation of these elements.

In live performance, Takemura did a brief set in the old style. Bits and pieces of electronic sound flowed together, with a subtle implied rhythm that never saw explicit reference. After the pre-programmed beats of Prefuse 73, Takemura's varied approach held the audience's interest. The music flowed naturally (following Takemura's own twisted version of logic), with enough surprise and detail to keep listeners tuned in. This early material was inspiringly beautiful, in a very abstract and profound way.

As the performance progressed, the video running on the screen behind the players assumed a more significant role. In the early portion, a camera panned across various esoteric electronic instruments—keyboards, mixers, and various other less readily- identifiable items. These images offered self-conscious irony, making explicit reference to the fact that electronic music so vitally depends on the hardware used for its creation. (The performers at this show, of course, had state of the art computers. Takemura was cooking on a Platinum Powerbook; and Tsuyuko had what looked like a new iBook.) Man behind machine, man within machine, machine as voice... the natural progression soon became obvious.

The latter half of Takemura and Tsuyuko's performance was dominated by outstanding cartoon videos. The characters on the screen had features which reflected real-time changes in the music. Tsuyuko seemed to be particularly busy with this part of the process. Again, irony played a dominant role. Instead of singing into a mike, the duo used computers in a roundabout fashion to achieve a similar effect. Various samples resembling digitized voice, as well as other insundry items, were stored in a sampler. As the music progressed, the musicians triggered these events from the computer. By assembling a series of these voice-like sounds in just the right order, the duo gave the cartoon characters life-like voices. Of course, the figures on the screen spoke no language outside the digital realm. At times, this part of the performance bore faint resemblance to Peter Frampton's experiments with vocalization, oddly enough (!). But Takemura and Tsuyuko took the concept of synchronizing voice to music several steps further. It was an impressive and mystifying experience.

The duo relied on some fairly heavy beats during this portion of the performance. They served as a sort of platform to support freshly-assembled sound collages. Certain loops proceeded in the background while they paid attention to other matters... and as a result, the changes in the music often came in bunches, rather than manifesting themselves as continuous evolution of each sound at once. These differences from Takemura's recorded work seem to reflect a fundamental dichotomy between studio work and live performance. Takemura may be a master at studio wizardry, but it's clearly an impossible task to duplicate this level of control in the live setting. So he made compromises, and they seemed to reflect a sort of intellectual honesty. Rather than pressing "go" and letting a pre-assembled series of events transpire, Tsuyuko and Takemura seemed to focus on personally handling each step in the process.

Even the best electronic music can often have a paradoxical effect on the relationship between performer and audience. Rather than bringing the people on stage together with the audience, it can drive them apart. The machines at the interface drew the listeners' attention this particular night out. The audience fixed its gaze on the evolving video stream, rather than examining Takemura and Tsuyuko and trying to figure out what they were doing on the trackpad. Similarly, the performers rarely made eye contact with the audience. They lent utter and complete attention to the process of creation, and in the process bypassed a direct human connection. Man operates machine, man beholds machine: the critical role of the intermediary cannot be denied.

Tortoise

The Tortoise performance, in contrast, was viscerally and powerfully analog in nature. The studio magic used to craft Tortoise's epic statements on disc shrank to a bare minimum, and each member of the band spoke with a distinctively individual musical voice. The band made a dramatic TNT entry, launching from an anthem-like guitar lead into material off their explosive '98 release. As each member stepped in to lend counterpoint, texture, and color, the music began to glow with life-like brightness.

Tortoise takes its music very seriously. Rather than assuming the role of entertainers, or even simple performers, the members of the band declare themselves—first and foremost—as artists. The process of creation yields the radiant joy in Tortoise's live music, not some kind of flash-and-bang designed to whip the audience into a frenzy. (Yet another reason why Prefuse 73 just didn't fit... people didn't come to this show to be whipped.) The members of Tortoise focused most of their energy on listening and responding, building and remodeling—not spurring on the cheers of the audience. And, to be honest, that was the defining reason most people came to this event.

Case in point: at the beginning of the Tortoise show, the crowd was applauding loudly. As tends to happen in these situations, the whole auditorium converged on a single beat. Everyone clapped in unison. And then, being the deviant weasel that I am, I started clapping on the offbeat. Soon a group of people around me were working counter- rhythms to the dominant pulse of the theater. Individuals broke out eagerly with triplets and higher-order units. As this revolution proceeded, the whole theater ended up in a collective performance not unlike what you'd hear from a West African drum ensemble. This kind of magic is not possible with the average crowd—it takes a special collection of people, and a special point of view, for things like this to happen. Once the idea had come to fruition, people settled back and waited for Tortoise to deliver their own advanced version of the same concept.

One of the most exciting aspects of Tortoise's live performance was the group's amazing ability to create rhythmic texture. It's clear from listening to Tortoise's studio work that shifting, interlocked beats provide an over-riding logic that shapes the pulse and flow of the music. Check out "Seneca," the first track on their new Standards disc, for examples of clapping as a tool for rhythmic synergy. Of course, this tune gained an extra dimension when the group performed it live in front of this group of eager clappers.

While many of the lead melodies in Tortoise's music arise from guitar or keyboard instruments, the group's cohesion and pulse mostly comes from percussion. (Of course, instruments like the bass and vibraphone can also play both roles.) Two drummers might take to the stage at once; and other players might step up to the vibes or use hand-held percussion to alternately reinforce and tug at the beat. Occasionally, programmed loops popped in to offer yet another reference for counterpoint. All these events transpired openly and transparently while tunes evolved. John McEntire's drumming was particularly notable in this respect: rather than going for a high level of detail or pursuing multiple lines at once, he centered his drumming around deconstruction of the beat. By leading or trailing the pulse, he offered the impression of multiple rhythms without stating them explicitly. A meter of four in McEntire's hands turns into an ambiguous three and five, leaving the understated pulse throbbing beneath. Even when McEntire was busy elsewhere, the other players sitting in at the kit preserved this delicate balance.

Rhythms aside, the players in Tortoise also have an amazing ability to make simple melodies ring clear. Certain themes rang like anthems in the night air: starkly inspiring, without embellishment or pretension. And when these themes returned, a subtle counterpoint on bass or vibes (each present in duplicate at this show) reinforced them without distraction. The musicians shifted from instrument to instrument, adding a welcome sense of variety without betraying undue restlessness. McEntire moved almost continuously from drums to keyboard to vibes—or anywhere else he was needed. Indeed, one had the sense that he was the glue that held the group together: when a key transition phrase was needed, he jumped in to provide a magic touch. (This role in live performance reflects his special duties as studio mastermind behind Tortoise's recorded work. In fact, the band has reported trouble playing pieces from TNT live, simply because the studio versions are so densely textured.) McEntire also projected a certain self-conscious distance from the music. He might play a crucial keyboard vamp with one hand while looking the other direction, or casually step up to the vibes just in time to deliver two critical measures. Maybe this was an effort to avoid attention; or maybe he was trying to downplay his contributions to the group. Hard to tell.

Guitarist Jeff Parker also made some outstanding contributions to the improvised portions of the work, reflecting his background in jazz-oriented settings. At times he came up with spontaneous, rich melodic phrases; at others, he used distortion and effects to deliver amorphous, abstract chunks of sound. Within the context of the ever-shifting groove and the continual counterpoint served up by the different members of the group, it often took a special eye to find out who was behind these pointed thrusts—but, more often than not, it was Parker. Toward the end of the set, the guitarist poised for an extended improvisation and faltered, hitting only a few notes before giving up and putting his axe down. Meanwhile, the rest of the band kept moving. This implicit declaration of defeat presented a refreshingly ironic reminder that Tortoise's music lives in the moment—and even veteran players sometimes prefer silence to sound.

Toward the end of the show, after cheering and applause, somebody in the rear of the theater got the bright idea to do bird calls. (Yes, this was not your average audience.) Soon different parts of the room were chirping and whistling back at each other. The band stood silently, stoically, waiting for the jungle noises to end. Someone on the balcony uttered the call of the White-Speckled Grouse, and then a guy in the left orchestra offered the cry of the Whiskered Screech Owl. A virtual swarm of winged creatures descended upon the place. After a while, the band started looking impatient, eager to get on with the show. A whistle from on stage meant to communicate this impatience only spurred on the Whippoorwill and the Louisiana Waterthrush. It was clear that these people might end up whistling and chirping all night. So I took action, co-opting a natural predator, and meowed loudly. Taken by surprise, many of the chirpers and tweeters ignored the threat of feline violence. So I had to cry more hungrily, and eventually half-growl, half-hiss. But then all the birds took flight—and seconds later, the band launched into a fast, tight vamp.

With so much of their repertoire consisting of pieces that turn on a dime, Tortoise relies on rock-solid cohesion. When an interlude segues neatly back into a main theme, every member of the group is there, right on time, landing at the critical moment. This music, with its shifting grooves and interlaced melodies, might suggest laid-back performers with an easy hand on their instruments—but these guys were anything but flaccid. The two encores, performed by an exhausted band in response to eager standing ovations, offered plenty of evidence to support this point. Certain moments spaced between composed segments offered considerable latitude, but the over-riding logic of the song form permeated these tunes. Tortoise plays compositions, in the formal sense of the word. Of course, each tune gets personal attention from each member of the band, but they obey a higher order. It's the give-and-take between formally composed elements and improvised interplay that makes every Tortoise performance special.

And that's why people came out this Tuesday evening. After two and a half hours of music, the audience seemed to have absorbed some of Tortoise's radiant glow. We passed quietly into the night, much richer for the experience.

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