There are ragas for different times of the day and for different seasons. Is Hemvati, one of my favourites, an evening raga? It is stately, measured. A music, I imagine to myself, of late middle age. A classical music, after the romanticism of youth.
I remember Hemvati as I listen to Jandek's Glasgow Monday, The Cell, that is based raga-like, around a handful of notes. Only it is constant in its tempo; it has learned to organise itself around a single, regular pulse. That turns around this most minimal of measures, and lets itself be measured by it. A steady music - wise. A music that has gathered up the lessons of the day, of a lifetime. A music that pushes forward like a glacier from the slow pressure of that life, and of its lessons. And lets the singer ask, very simply, What do I have?, and this at the start of each of the nine main sections of the piece.
What do I have?: to ask, simply: who am I that is here? Who? - and this question speech-sung over a measured, august piano, moving slowly. Over a piano played gently, measuredly, and percussion - Alex Neilson standing, I've read for most of the set, introducing several instruments, bowing them, scraping them, shaking them. And Richard Young's bowed bass, curving upwards out of the music and down again, bass parts like the backs of whales in water, or like a landscape of low hills. And an august beauty to that bowed bass. A measured beauty; a classical one.
The first part has no vocals. It attunes you, measures you; the music lays itself out, inevitable. The bed of music is laid out, slow, august. And you are attuned, measured, calmed. This was to be a meditative set, the audience at the gig in Glasgow were told. So they sat down, 200 of them, and clapped only at the end, after 80 minutes of music. 80 minutes, gathering itself forward. Pulling over itself the lessons of a whole life, like a sleeper a blanket. And asking, over and again, 'What do I have?', which is to say, 'Who?' - who am I that sings?, that's how I translate it. Who am I that can sing and has the capacity to sing? Who is it that has been gifted with this power?
The lyrics are made of short phrases, spoken-sung. The piano continuing all the while. And the bowed bass is droning. And percussion glides in and out. Who am I that sings?, asks the singer. Who is it raised from the bed of music, as in some kind of reversed sea wreck? A voice - gratuitous, unasked for, and that asks: 'who?' And that question throughout. Who sings, then? The Representative from Corwood, according to the usual nomenclature. The Rep at his piano and with a sheaf of lyrics, and singing - and with what concentration! with what focus!
But so that singing sings of the surprise of singing, of being able to sing. Of this strange strength that rises above the music and above living. A peculiarly human affair. Lifted from immanence, from the life of animals that, says Bataille, pass like water in water. Lifted up, standing on two legs and staring up into the sky. As if the sky held the mysteries of our birth. As if it was there we'd find the measure, where measure is lacking.
But there is the pulse of the piano, dependable. The bowed electric bass and the percussion washes. A slow advance, a rolling forward. Something is dependable here. A music you can lean on. A music that carries you forward, inevitably. And I ask myself, by what strength? By what strength did this piece allow this bearing forward? What miracle of strength holds it out into the unknown, and because of its measure?
A classical music. Restrained. With no breaks, no virtuosity. That patiently goes forward. Patiently, and like a pond refreshed by rain. Waiting, patient. Patient all the length of time. It is a suite in several movements. It starts, and then rolls on, and ends, in 7 or 8 minute chunks. 10 times over, including the first instrumental passage. Including the opening attunement, the anacrusis (not a real one) before the beat, the taking in of breath. The gathering of breath from the pulse as it finds itself. And the steady movement around the pulse, the slow orbit.
And the speech-song that rises as out of the music and stays and falls back in. That rises in a phrase and slides back in. 'I - can break - the barrier': and the last word half whispered. 'If it needs - brushing - up against'. Half breathily, wonderingly. 'Nothing - delivered - except the barrier' - sung-spoken phrases. That ride above the music, not far above. That must and wonder. And are addressed to whom? to us? to the singer? to no one in particular? Perhaps to the surprise of singing, and of being able to sing.
'To the other side of life - where - I don't think about anything.' Of the singing allowed to be made of words. That brings words. And sings of itself, of its own singing. Of that strange break in life that allows life to sing of itself. That strange reflexivity, where life grows self-conscious, self-aware - and that regards itself, its own transparency. That is as open as the air, and as blank.
'It's so basic/ these things': as though the singer was reminding himself or something. Of trying to find a wisdom, a way to live. That can only be found by singing. A movement of discovery, then, and of a way to live - a quest. A questioning that demands sliding into the music-pool. Of laying out the bed of music.
And the exploration can begin. Patience begins. And the singer, surprised at singing, surprised there is a voice, lays out that long prayer - but to what? a prayer to what? - breathily, spoken-sung, half whispered. A prayer to - the capacity to ask. The question, and the question's gratuitousness. As it forms itself and rises like a bubble. As the lyric-phrases rise bubble-like and break on the music's surface.
'What do I have?' - asked so many times. 'An insight - from the past.' One answer, as there are others. An assessment of life, a looking back. An inventory of sorts. 'Some bastion - I guard.' And the bass, bowed steadily. The bass, giving itself to fate, singing the single not of fate. And the percussion, busy - in various ways.
'Some shade - granted - the beast is difficult'. Lyric phrases that bubble up and break, half-whispering. A speech song. A speech-song sung looking upwards. Like a broken backed creature. Like an animal with a snapped spine and who can only look up to the spread sky, the stars. And in whom that sky seems to know itself and whisper. That seems to sing of its surprise at singing, and at being able to sing. Yes, that is what the singer is: a broken animal. Broken-spined and singing upwards. As the music pulses. As the music - all of life - continues. And as singing rises, continuing.
But there's no pain here. An animal, broken, that freezes to death. That falls into death as into sleep. That draws death over itself like a blanket. Now I will die. And that does not die, but sings. An animal death enters and that can sing. 'What do I have?/ A ship without a crew/ dead leaves in the forest.' And the piano searching. Searching the mode Jandek has given it. Searching the possibility given in a few notes. Searching-playing. And the lyric-phrases half breathless. Breathed - out. Rising up like bubbles, breaking all along the surface.