Two Women
PJ Harvey, Diamanda Galás
|
|
I was thinking the other day that, like most of us,
I feel I’m somewhat misinterpreted, generally speaking. What I meant was
that if anyone wanted to pick a fight with me, a mere man, why then they had to understand that
there isn’t enough of what we think of as male inside me to bother doing
battle with. And that’s because I come from a distant place seen only
through a microscope, where all the genderization of mind and body and
heart and soul long ago was determined to be best graded strictly on a
continuum basis — and people like me recognize each other when we see
ourselves. You approve? Or, as Lee Michaels’ 1969 No. 6 chart-topper had
it, “Do you know what I mean?”
Let’s just say that gender issues are far and away
the most relevant and interesting issues we’ve got in this world, and will
continue to be. And this fact gave me the skanky idea that for this wee bit
of writing I’d take a look at the current state of “women’s music,” knowing
full well that at this point in time, on this particular planet, such a
construct is a hairy old contrivance and that for one reason or another
(mostly stupid ones, if I may), I’d get my huevos poached for even attempting such crude, bronzy
hubris.
As I say, though, who am I
but a mere man, an objective
observer wishing musicians good luck and hoping for the best? I’m a
watcher, one who listens— and
perhaps learns. And in fact women’s music is often marketed as such, or at least made an issue
of, often it’d seem to the dismay or disillusionment of its makers. And
that’s because, especially to endure in the coarse and brutal reality that
is the contemporary record industry, you’ve got to have a gimmick — a hook,
an angle (two big ones, frankly) — even if it is the very ordinary fact of
your sex, and even if you only wish to sell eight records. I remember
having a little spat (I mean discussion) at the LA Weekly
years ago when the subject of L7 came up,
whether it was sexist to refer to them as a “girl band” or “those heavily
rockin’ banshees” or whatever somesuch and etc. Backed into a corner,
sweating, fiddling with my codpiece, I coughed and simpered that L7
themselves were self-identified
as an all-female band, that they themselves made it an issue; indeed, I myself asked Donita Sparks if I could
try out when they were looking for a new drummer, but she just got this
sort of vague look on her face…
Digging my own grave
here. I will now take my castor oil and withdraw, but not before quoting
Annette Peacock: “Hey, man, my destiny is not to serve. I’m a woman. My
destiny is to create.”
PJ HARVEY, Uh Huh
Her (Island Records, with
its oh-so-vicious anti-piracy threats on the cover) The chameleonic PJ Harvey’s seventh album
divulges a few of her numerous colors in largely bare-bones tracks notable
for her unfailingly natural ear (as if she has no choice, which is the best
thing) for incredibly interesting music as music, her little-woman-with-a-big-ax yoke
notwithstanding. She leaps dramatically through wild modulations and arcane
chordings on rough-sawed electric guitars, these guitars as informed by
Delta blues as they are three-steps-removed from the plains of Ghana or
golden Chinese pavilions. Harvey’s outlines for songs seem tight but
capable of entertaining notched stabs of subtly askew tone-scrap
ornamentation that flies in from strange heights, in a jumble of depths and
distances. She gets a sound that is literally head-turning, and that gift
has not diminished a speck.
Harvey recorded the
disc mostly by herself in her home studio, augmenting with spare
tambourine, kalimba samples, rudimentary-fingered organ, piano or the odd
loop, and I like the purity of intention and purpose coming through as a
result — one can at least imagine her saying, “This is what I want it to sound like.” Harvey’s lyrics
— melancholy/petulant/shy, and I don’t think I’m projecting — might mention
washing that man outta her mouth (she won’t be tied down, basically, though
she’s apparently not into breaking hearts, either), how the rain just keeps
comin’ down and it’s promises, promises no one could possibly keep, and
when she really sings those
words it sounds a bit like Siouxsie and it’s very nice; but when her
tuff-girl voice is thin and English you find yourself admiring her pluck
more than her plucking. PJ Harvey’s music, though: burning intelligence,
smoking chops, smoldering ardor.
DIAMANDA GALÁS, Defixiones,
Will and Testament and La
Serpenta Canta (Mute
Records) Galás is the
supercolossal vocal virtuoso who has received both acclaim and infamy as
the creator of AIDS-related music/performance pieces such as Plague Mass, Litanies of Satan
and The Masque of the Red Death trilogy. La Serpenta Canta is the CD debut of her 2001 song cycle
interpreting works by Ornette Coleman, Hank Williams, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins
and an unimaginably scorched version of Holland-Dozier-Holland’s “My World
Is Empty Without You.” Defixiones, Will and Testament is a nerve-rackingly beautiful piece based on
texts related to the Armenian and Anatolian Greek massacres of 1915 and
1922, with an arcing, relevant theme of genocide in its various guises, and
its cowardly denial.
The uncowardly Galás
takes themes of death, degradation and demoralization to heroic extremes,
and is an authoritative (to say the least) spokesperson for the
unspeakable. Defixiones
addresses, among other things, the devastation on entire cultures as
inflicted by the Turks (among others), a scenario that has been played out
in Armenia and Greece, in Assyria and with the Kurds for hundreds of years.
With Galás, the music is always accompanied by some kind of threat; she’s
one woman you don’t mind calling a bitch, ’cause she’s like a mother dog
whose coat you can admire but who will slash if you bring harm to her
young. It’s fascinating to me that she has the onstage charisma of a drag
diva to the 20th power, as if it takes a woman to know what a woman really
wants.
Defixiones has Galás really flexing, and the effect (a
trivializing word) is goose bumps. Over electronic drones, whipping wind
and her most fugging awesome left-hand piano rudeness snarking out like a
tarantula, she intones, incants, rails, pleads, commands and testifies in distressed
epiglottal paroxysms, agonized tongues. Listening to Defixiones, I’m reminded again of an unsettling realization
that comes about when musicians or filmmakers or writers address horrific
subjects, and that is, in order to persuade, on some level the art itself
requires a pleasurable effect, akin to katharsis. Galás exhilarates above all because she is that
very rare performer who deals articulately with horrific topicality but
doesn’t skimp on the progressive requirements of new, important music.
Diamanda Galás is a
very heartening presence in music and art, a bad, bad bitch who speaks for
the horrors of those who can’t speak for themselves, then says, “What is
truly horrible is to create work that very few people understand, or people
think you’re fuckin’ nuts doing, and then feel the prescience of it.” Right
on. I like this even better: “I never, never do work because I feel that
people are going to relate to it. I do it because I feel that I need to do
it. I have the truth of my own convictions. I’m willing to search my soul.
I expect everyone else to do the same.”
|
Diamanda Galás interview 2008
Diamanda Galás interview 2001 |