I was reminded of the composer/performer dichotomy last night, watching Lars von Trier’s Dancer in the Dark. I’m of three minds about the movie, and I think this (some­times yawning) gap is at the crux of my mixed feelings. Dancer a quite self-serious attempt at a tragic movie-musical, and the heroïne (as well as focus of the camera 95% of the time) is none other than Björk. She also wrote the musical numbers. (I’m about to do that thing where I conflate a fictional char­ac­ter, Selma, with a real, live actor, which I know is sloppy of me, but I think the movie invites it.) I love me some Björk, but here’s where things fall apart for me: only Björk can pull off singing Björk’s music. Espe­cially in the context of a movie-musical going down inside her own imag­i­na­tion. The moment Peter Stormare breaks into song I just want to die, or at least check my email. Lumber­ing, repressed Scan­di­na­vian men cannot convinc­ingly sing cross-barline tuplets against an elec­tronic beat consist­ing of sampled factory noises. At least, they should not attempt to do so. 

How does this reflect on my own life expe­ri­ence? I’m not sure, as I’m neither a slightly creepy and possibly retarded lovelorn drifter or a down-on-my-luck corrupt police­man. After devoting in the past few months entirely too much time writing and perform­ing my own music, I’m shifting gears entirely to the “inter­pre­tive” side of things. I like that my various jobs go through peaks and valleys; by the time I’m done with one phase, the next feels welcome and refreshing. 

Things begin in earnest on Thursday, March 24, when I venture back to New Haven to perform the great Ingram Marshal­l’s Authen­tic Presence. The very next day, I’ll be joining vocalist Mellissa Hughes for a concert back in Brooklyn. Mellissa is a musician I’ve admired since way back in college, when I saw her perform Pierrot Lunaire, at midnight, to an over­flow­ing crowd in Branford College common room. Since then, she’s gone on to become a central and much-adored figure in the “new music scene” (whatever that is—not going to write about that just now), throwing herself into projects as both a theatri­cally wild diva and a self-effacing ensemble member. We’ll be collab­o­rat­ing on songs by three good friends— Ted Hearne, Eric Shan­field, and Gabriel Kahane.

Then it’s off to Houston for a week, where my plan is to woodshed the 300 or so pieces I’ll be playing on the 21c Lieder­abend, which is actually drei Lieder­abends, at The Kitchen. There are so many reasons to be excited about this truly epic event, includ­ing many a friendly face— ACME! David Kaplan, my pianis­tic partner-in-crime! Mellissa, Ted, and Gabe again! The quantity of music is just over­whelm­ing, though I’m espe­cially looking forward to playing Greg Spears’s ravish­ing settings of Wilfred Owen poems, Ted’s Is it Dirty?, Julia Wolfe’s Carbon Copy Building, and Phil Kline’s Zippo Songs (another college favorite). 

OK, that was a whole bunch of plugging. I apol­o­gize; it’s because I haven’t written here for weeks. Again: peaks and valleys. Speaking of which, you are probably going to want some gears for those: 

It’s true, I bought another bike last time I was in Houston. It’s a beau­ti­ful, chroméd Schwinn Super Le Tour 12.2 from 1978. And yes, those shift levers are down­right rococo. I’m looking forward to upgrad­ing it to my satis­fac­tion— new tires, saddle, pedals, and bar tape to start with. I just have to remember not to look down at the thing when I’m riding under the Texas sun.