Nathaniel Mackey: A Special Issue || "Beyond the Letter": Identity, Song, and...

"Beyond the Letter": Identity, Song, and "Strick"Author(s): Jeffrey GraySource: Callaloo, Vol. 23, No. 2, Nathaniel Mackey: A Special Issue (Spring, 2000), pp. 621-639Published by: The Johns Hopkins University PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/3299887 .

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"BEYOND THE LETTER" Identity, Song, and Strick

by Jeffrey Gray

"Surprisingly enough, twentieth-century advances in literary interpretation and musical analysis have done little to foster an interdisciplinary method. To put it bluntly, none exists." (4)

-Lawrence Kramer, Poetry and Music: The Nineteenth Century and After

"sound their adamant recompense...."

-Song of the Andoumboulou #18

Nathaniel Mackey's compact disk recording Strick: Song of the Andoumboulou 16-25 (1995) is the continuation of his long open-ended poem Song of the Andoumboulou, installments of which have appeared in numerous journals and in two of his books, Eroding Witness (1985) and School of Udhra (1993).1 While alluding in its title to its inspiration, the West African Dogon "Song of the Andoumboulou," Strick is not itself a song-in fact, both its prosody and its "raspiness," to use Mackey's term, resist the transcendence we associate with song.2 It is instead a commentary on millennial poetic concerns for roots as well as for the linguistic detours, deferrals, and dead-ends of the root-seeking process; a struggle between the scribal and the oral, between signing and singing; an important inversion of our accustomed perception of music as formal and combinatory and literature as mimetic and referential; and a specimen of the inclusive "world poem"-with its precedents in Whitman, Pound, Williams, and Duncan.

Strick is also, most simply, the narrative of a journey across desert spaces, a journey in which layers of voices, histories, and melodies replace chronology as a way of

organizing time. Musicians Royal Hartigan and Hafez Modirzadeh, multi-instrumen- talists in world music and jazz, collaborated with Nathaniel Mackey in creating a work unique in its juxtapositions: on the one hand, contemporary jazz and traditional

Callaloo 23.2 (2000) 621-639

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musics of Iran, India, China, the Philippines, and West Africa, and, on the other, an experimental poetic texture which, while it gestures toward roots, frustrates the comforts of rootedness.

Lawrence Kramer, in his book Poetry and Music: The Nineteenth Century and After, has written that, owing to the asymmetry in semiotic structure between literature and music, no interdisciplinary method exists that can fully engage both. Without pre- tending anything here in the way of a general contribution toward such a method, I would like to explore the ways in which words and music refer to each other in Strick, with particular attention to the referential qualities of music in a work of poetry concerned with versions of collective identity.

Nathaniel Mackey occupies a problematic place in contemporary poetry. An African-American poet whose influential essays on mid- to late-century African- American poetry-and, in a novel juxtaposition, Black Mountain poetry-are collect- ed in his book Discrepant Engagement, his poetry is usually featured in anthologies of formally experimental, not identitarian work. Because such oppositions organize texts and contexts for reading, and because it matters where we find and read poetry, I note the following comment by Douglas Messerli, from his introduction to From the Other Side of the Century: A New American Poetry 1960-1990, where Messerli explains that his principle for inclusion has nothing to do with subject position and everything to do with experimentation: "Poets of great talent whose writing has more to do with cultural, social, and political subjects than the more formally-conceived poems in this volume, must recognize the specific focus of this anthology." Given Mackey's pres- ence in other anthologies of postmodern poetry, I take this remark, and this distinction, as representative.

And yet Mackey's work is almost obsessively concerned with subject position, particularly with the difficulty of locating a viable first-person plural identity. The travelling narrators of Strick frequently allude to the mythical site of an aboriginal collective, the lost "one we Ouadada" (#18), the "collective kiss we called Ouadada" (#20). If Mackey's poetry is also "identitarian," as I think it is, its shifting terrains, mythologies, and frames of reference complicate any settled sense of identity. Cer- tainly, the texts of Strick are neither "experimental" in the sense of postmodern pastiche or sign surfing nor "identitarian" in the sense of nostalgic "roots" narratives. The space that Strick explores is one that can best be understood by looking at these ten "Songs" in the context of the music that surrounds, conditions, imbues, and sometimes overwhelms them.

I would like to understand Strick as heard rather than read. I first encountered it this way-in performance at Seton Hall University in the Spring of 1997, the third live performance of Strick to date, and then through repeated listenings on compact disk. Looking later at the "Songs" in print, I saw that some of their most prominent sonic features are veiled by the poetry's visual prosody. In spite of Marjorie Perloff's "The Linear Fallacy," which argues against the idea of free verse as chopped-up prose, it has been a convention for 20th-century poets to ignore lineation in favor of syntax in oral readings. While oral reading, then, often conceals prosody-in the sense partic-

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ularly of line-breaks-lineation can in turn conceal elements that seem too simple or direct to read syntactically-anaphora, rhymes, other repetitions, or simply too- conventional phrases-and also may hide the way the author is in fact hearing the poem. Another way of saying this is that visual prosody is at odds with aural prosody. Where in traditional verse the written text served a notational role, free-verse poetry has tended to establish visual spaces unrelated to oral delivery, and to defamiliarize conventional juxtapositions and syntactical structures.3

Approaching Strick as phonotext unfortunately requires a certain violence in

quoting. It would be awkward to respect written lineation at some times and to ignore it at others. For consistency's sake, but chiefly because it is often important not to visualize lines on a page, in what follows I will indicate not written but spoken line breaks (pauses) with slashes.4 As I note below, concerning Nathaniel Mackey's reading style, these lines are of uneven syllabic count but usually with two stresses per (heard) line.

It will be helpful at the outset to distinguish Mackey's work from that of performance poetry in general today, especially poetry-and-music ensembles where poems are declaimed, chant rhythms are set up, and a wide range of vocal techniques is

deployed. Whether at the Nuyorican Cafe in lower Manhattan or at poetry slams around the nation, this is a familiar if diverse and still developing aesthetic. Jamaican poet and critic Gordon Rohlehr's description of the aesthetic and technique of dub could be extended, I think, to much of the poetry-and-music coming out today, where voice is laid over, and follows the contours of, a rhythmic grid:

Sound is stripped down to the skeleton of riddim, with the superimposition of the flesh of voice in performance. In Dub one scarcely runs the risk of the voice having to compete against its accompaniment as frequently happens with calypso in performance. (18)

Mackey not only runs but embraces that risk. Both verbal and musical textures in Strick are complex and seldom conform formally to each other. Even where rhythms are not free but "laid down," and even when they are 4/4, they are often, in the hands of polyrhythmist Hartigan, overlaid with other rhythms and/or inflected from a wide multi-ethnic palette of accents and colors. In other words, in Strick, the music incorporates, drifts, and amalgamates at least as much as the verbal text does. One might say, using Gayatri Spivak's term, that it "worlds."

Strick is a sequence of poems not merely accompanied by music but also about music, from the flamenco and the oud's lament of the opening song through the jukeboxes, "cuts," and musical bands encountered in the journey. The travelers who tell the story of Strick use music as a compass, one which frequently gets them lost. They are postmodern travelers in their listening modes as in their technology. They listen-in trains, cars, or buses-to musical tracks (usually cassettes or disks) which they can play back and over which they exert some control. If they do not know where they are or even how they are travelling, they know what they are hearing. Indeed the

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limitlessness of their options muddies the vision of a coherent journey, in spite of the travelers' urge toward coherent, even foundational, signs.

The travelers are repeatedly confused not only about their location but about their mode of transportation-train, bus, or peripatetic tavern (the "Wrack Inn" or "Long Night Lounge" on wheels). At one stop they are auctioned off on blocks. In the next line, "it was a train we were on." Still later, they "wondered was it even a train we were on / if it was was it going the right way."

The places of Strick are not given but are named and become themselves out of events, sometimes events of pain or duress, but most often musical events. The fact that the places the travelers try to fathom are indicated by subjective and musical rather than by geographical markers seems to confuse them pleasurably. When "a Brazilian cut" comes on, at the opening of Song #21, and "Paulhinho's voice [Paulinho da Costa, the Brazilian percussionist and singer] lit our way," the travelers are not in Brazil but in Andalusia. Indeed, all ten of these Songs trace the Mediterranean littoral-but, as it were (under Mackey's influence), not littorally. Thus, "It was a train in Southern Spain we were on" and yet "It was a train outside Sao Paolo, on our way to Algeciras." That these travelers reach Spain via Brazil is a probable New World line of inquiry, but it is typical of a musical rather than a chronological way of cohering, dissolving the illusion of narrativity through which experience is usually forced to make sense.

It is Paulinho who has "put one place atop another," who has "brought Brazil in." But rather than see this as a subjective error, now corrected by awareness of the empirically present Spain, the entire in here vs. out there opposition is called into question:

An ear we'd have called inner

unexpectedly out Neither all in our heads, nor was the world an array less random than we had thought It was a train outside Sao Paolo, on our way to Algeciras, we were on.

From the beginning of Strick-at Song #16-music, geography, and history are set out as a single inextricable theme of displacement. One hears first the sand-and-sea hiss of the drummer's hands stroking the snare drum head, and then the two-beat lines:

"They were dredging the sea / counting the sand / Pounded rocks into gravel / paid a d6llar a day." At these words the voiced tenor sax comes in, sung through without a mouthpiece, sounding like an Australian digiridoo and with something like that

purpose of singing the aboriginal land into being. The spoken lines mention flamenco

strings and the oud-placing us at the two ends of the Mediterranean, its respective West and East. And then, as if pulling up to a wider vantage, come the place names- not now songs heard on cassettes but actual geographical sites of this continuous plaintive, melismatic moan (the cante ondo of the Song's written but unspoken epigraph): "The same cry taken up in Cairo, C6rdoba, north Red Sea near Nagfa, Muharak...." The contours of that cry, its linguistic, geographical, and musical permutations, will be traced in the succeeding Songs of Strick.

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If places, like journeys, are under construction, Strick's is nevetheless a journey with a mission: the travelers, as in tales of expeditions to lands that time forgot, are in search of a mythical collectivity, the "one we Ouadada" (#18). To the extent that all

journeys are journeys inward, this is a quest for home. While often seen as illusory, the "we" is nevertheless continually promised by the music, both in the referential and often nostalgic dimensions I will discuss below and in the narrator's words about the music. In the last segment of #20, with Hartigan playing a Latin 4/4 rhythm on the drum set and the tenor jabbing accents, often clave variations, around minor and chromatic scales, Mackey reads,

No such we the where we knew Pres's people an illusion music said was no illusion Ruse it behooved us beware of. (#20)

Empirically, for these travelers, there is no "we" as yet. And if, in the era of Pres-

saxophonist Lester Young-there was a viable collectivity constructed around jazz, it is not so now. And yet, we may read, the "music said [that the we] was no illusion." But music's trustworthiness is called into question often in Strick, not alone for its

geographical confusions. Thus, "music said .. ." can also be read as an instance of a

missing subject, a convention in the Songs: not that music spoke but that "music [he] said was no illusion ...." This is consistent both grammatically and thematically. The characters and geographic locales are more unstable and insubstantial than are the strains of ouds, Abdul Saleen's octet, the cuts on the radio, and other musical currents that shape the travelers' experience. The "ruse," in this reading, is not music but wished-for collective foundations.

Strick, given the nature of its search, does not trace a linear narrative of progress. Frequently, the travelers realize they haven't moved. In fact, at the precise moment of

expressing that determination not to be "turned around," they are turned around:

This while on our way to Ouadada vowed we'd let nobody turn us around

thought we saw Dadaoua. (#20)

"Dadaoua," an anagrammatic "turning-around" of "Ouadada," echoes also the "real"

city where, unintentionally, they do arrive. The last song of Strick (#25) constitutes an arrival, even a closure-not at the dreamt Ouadada but rather at Ouagadougou D.C. ("Mothered in blood / on blood / gotten / big beyond limit"), that is, where they started. The beginning of Song #25 introduces this unwilled and unscheduled stop as "Ouar" (pronounced "war"). At every stop but this one, a conductor had cried "Not

yet." Why wasn't this stop passed up as the rest had been? the travelers wonder.

Throughout it all a buzzing drum at our backs

again it was a train we were on Outside the window came a sign read "Ouar" we scratched our heads no such stop on the schedule we read / no such where... (#25)

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Knowing Mackey's anagrammatic plays-sihg as somewhere between sigh and

sing (and, though it's not in the poem, sign)-surely Ouar, while it is not the "one we Ouadada," is nevertheless our(s). The a that troubles the spelling is a convention of the French prefixes established in Ouadada, Ouagadougou (often spelled Wagadougou), and Ouab'da. Ouar is uncannily familiar, as is Ouagadougou D.C.-"our" nation's

capital.5 It is familiar in part for its scene of devastation, like that depicted in the first

song of Strick. The scene of catastrophe and enslavement, with its "charred bodies," is here recapitulated in the "bombed origins." Song #25, if it is the most prophetic and

apocalyptic of the Songs ("End-of-the- / world augury, new world omen..."), is also the most burdened with a traveler's or a roots-seeker's moral:

... we the dismembered winced. Inasmuch as what we want was unreal there it stood, "four times fallen asleep" not even close, came to where they'd always been.

Unlike other Songs of Strick, many of which are divided into sections with differing musical accompaniment, sometimes with musical interludes between sections and between songs, Song #25 has the same musical accompaniment-a driving West African 12/8 rhythm-throughout. The zorna plays freely in an F minor Phrygian scale, often trilling, often leaving space for words and drum beats. This musical

arrangement continues throughout #25 into the final words. The donno (West African

hourglass-shaped drum) slows at the very end and is the last thing heard-a rich curved note with the stretching and relaxing of the skin over the drum.6

Hartigan is playing three of the six parts of an Adowa funeral rhythm from the Ashanti of Western Ghana.7 I have transcribed below the percussion parts: high hat, bass drum, and donno (playing high and low tones). 4/4 against 6/8-or, here, 12/ 8-is common in African as it is in Afro-Caribbean music, but in this case, because the

high hat enters first, establishing what sounds like a 4/4 bar with a quarter-note rest, followed by the bass drum, a figure-ground inversion results: one is misled into

hearing the bass drum as syncopated until the donno establishes the strong 12/8 pattern that redefines the roles of the other instruments. Then one hears that the bass drum is defining the beginnings of phrases rather than syncopating in the middle of those phrases. At the outset, that is, we seem to be hearing this:

Song #25, Ex. 1

Higha r r rC r r1 ir r r i r r1 -

-drum fl 1, l 'l 1l ' J, 1,7 flj :1

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when in fact, once the donno appears, we hear this:

Song #25, Ex. 2

Donno j -

Hih it r y | yPI

C 1 p | I

dBass Y^ J )N4 X Y j >IJ. dmms Ol 1 ~SI1 ,1Y,~J ~

Getting a beat "turned around" (hearing the backbeat as the downbeat, for example) is a well-known problem in improvised music. The counterpart to the Ouadada / Dadaoua turn-around is precise here, even if it requires passing from one semiotic structure to another. There is a pleasurable disorientation at hearing a beat established and then discovering that it really is "elsewhere" than one thought; it is no less the beat one heard originally, but now one understands it differently. The sense of at last arriving but not at the place where one had thought to arrive-indeed it is more familiar (Ouagadougou D.C. instead of Ouadada)-is, then, suggested by this musical correlative.

In addition to the explicit musical references, and the parallels between music and word, the poem's full title-that is, the title of the larger work, "Song of the Andoum- boulou"-takes up the vocal song trope of the American long poem, seen (or heard) in Whitman's Song of Myself, Pound's Cantos, and Ginsberg's Howl. (Of these-for its fragmentation, its multiple frames of reference, its visual prosody, its journey themes- the "Song of the Andoumboulou" is closest to the Cantos.) The primacy of music over words has long been discussed by poets, including Pound, and is certainly a concern of Nathaniel Mackey, a poet who has devoted much attention-not to mention a radio

program and numerous publications-to American music.8 As Lawrence Kramer has pointed out, poets invoke the trope of song when they want their work seen as

P-Ilpt I~ ?It- B~YP I

it VJt >N I

v)) r blJlJl t ) l r b:ilj

YPI-IP-l - -1 P C Y P-1 -1 P :II

I fl l Vil t Y~ h N

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transcendent, visionary, or prophetic (2). "Song of the Andoumboulou #1" begins, "The song says the / dead will not / ascend without song," lines that identify the poem (if not Strick, then the Dogon "Song") as ceremonial, elegiac, and magical. Yet music also has aspired to the condition of writing, and poems can be less mimetic than music.9 It is worth reminding ourselves both of the referential concreteness of music and of the deferring play of writing when listening to the music-and-poetry of Strick, whose case is clearly not one of a grounded, referential narrative "accompanied" by the formal play of music. Musical meaning may be inexact but, particularly in the case of traditional and sacred music, it may also be predicative and localized.

But, when we turn from the "Song" half of the poem's title to the "Strick" half, we encounter a curiosity, and perhaps an explanation for the way in which Mackey's own voice underplays or even denies music. Though the word "Strick" occurs only once within the ten Songs, its metaphorical force permeates them. Strick refers to the handful of flax or hemp before it has passed through the hatchel separating out the pulp from the fiber, which can then be woven into rope, string, a textus. The travelers in Strick try to find connective strands that are widely dispersed and do not often cohere; these strands are nonetheless gathered up in an effort to form a tentative cultural continuity. Mackey has pointed to the other echoes or linguistic "false friends" of Strick, including strike, stick, and strict. (I mention still others below.) Mackey's project is not so much to sing, then, as it is to sift, to hatchel, to search, to find what's usable, and especially not to leave out the "erroneous" turns or turn-arounds

along the way. There is an important irony here: a spoken poem, seeming to invoke the primacy

of the oral, which is in fact obsessed with the scribal. The obsession is partly thematic: the concern with books that are illegible, blank, or unobtainable, but that one needs to read or to have read in order to make sense of where one is going and, especially, in order to find, on the journey, the road to the collective, to the we. But the scribal turn is still more obvious at the graphic level, in the poet's play with spelling ("Razz, with an e on the end, a way of spelling" [#20], "sing less what / he did than sihg, anagrammatic sigh, / from war the male ruse to 'were' the / new ruse..." [#23], or "that words be would, would words" [#18]), with writerly puns and slippages (limb or limp, plain or plane, mute or moot), and with lineation on the page.

While the anagrammatic method sometimes carries over from the scribal to the oral, the "he" locked within the "they," or the "our" within the "your" is realized

visually, not aurally. Other important un-heard elements are the epigraphs and subtitles which introduce many of the songs in print, often pointing up clear thematic directions. That which introduces #17 (in print) is particularly important in its announcement of a poetic project: "... to remove the very categories of I, Thou, He, and to become We, such must be the meaning of the so-called 'mysteries of the Simonians'" (Jacques Lacarriere, The Gnostics).

In the oral and aural mode, we can mishear in ways that we cannot misread (unless we are reading handwriting, a closer correlative to the individual speaking voice). The dramatic close to Song #17, for example, sounds for all the world like

Choked on a coal put out for Ogun Dead before the book they thumbed,

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In print it is

Choked on a kola put out for Ogun Dead but for the book they thumbed.

Knowing-how many listeners would?-that kola nuts are traditionally set out as

offerings to the Yoruba god Ogun might insure the unity of the written and the heard in the first line. But "Dead before the book they thumbed" is consistent with Mackey's vision of a deracinated people trying, as their lives depend on it, to read unreadable

manuscripts, and dying in the attempt. That, instead, they would be dead were it not for that book, which somehow remains, that that is all that remains of them, is, arguably, less consistent.

In some cases mishearing results from written, not aural, puns. In Song #20, the narrator wonders whether it is "even a train we were on" and shortly thereafter

reports,

He who'd have said we so assured it was a plane we were on....

The written version spells the word "plain." Toward the end of Song #23 one hears

Beginning this book thought to've unrolled endlessly....

which fits in with the general self-referentiality of the Songs. In print, however, the line is

Beginningless book....

In still another case (#20), important for the concern with modes of travel, one hears:

Boded whether we came by train or by bus....

That is, it mattered, it boded good or ill. In fact the written line reads:

Boated whether we came by train or by bus...,

which introduces the idea of all transportation being, for these travelers, "boated," that is, by ship from Old to New World, a virtual Middle Passage, whether by sea or land.

In spite of the attraction of "a life sought beyond the letter" (#23), Strick does not resist but revels in the scribal. Song #23, after mentioning "the beginningless book," now seen as "more scroll than book," struggles etymologically away from the scribal toward the musical with the next apposition, "Talismanic strum." "Scroll" and "strum" would seem to correspond neatly to scribal and aural tropes. "Scroll," from Old French escroe, from Germanic skraudh, leads us to both shred and shroud. But

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"strum," while evoking the musical, yet retains the torn shred-like nuance of "scroll," in that it derives from thrum (Old High German drum), a fabric remnant, the extra fringe trimmed off and discarded from the edge of the loom. We must think, then, in both of these cases, of strick-the mass of plant matter from which the valued fiber, strong enough to be woven, must be separated. These etymologies lead away from the aural toward the letter, the heard to the written. The metaphors of music struggle with the stasis and weight of the book, as they do with those named, fixed points on the map.

The dialogue, even the competition, set up between extra-vocal musical elements and Nathaniel Mackey's non-declamatory if not monotonous speaking delivery has been important to musicians Hafez Modirzadeh and Royal Hartigan, both of whom have remarked, as have many listeners, Mackey's unaffected reading style. What might be some reasons for, and consequences of, this style?10

First of all, Mackey reads in two- to three-beat spoken units, regardless of the number of syllables in a unit. Often these phrases are doubled; that is, he will read two separated two-beat phrases, then pause. These units are always grammatical sense units, without the clumping or slowing down or fragmentation which visual prosody offers.

The opposition I have discussed between Strick and Song is germane to Mackey's frequently non-lyrical reading of the lyrical. "Lyrical" elements are either understat- ed or undermined by the reading style, whether the phrase is alliterative-"lost body of love," "gaze a ghost would give," "bleeding lips' lost luster"; sentimental-"wings of a dove," "night without end" (#16), "for what seemed eternity" (#21), "song he'd have given the world/ to hear her sing..." (#19); rhetorically extravagant-"Adamant muses in lewd array"; or archaic in diction-"lest," "troth," "would it would cease" (this one recycled from "Far Over" [School of Udhra]), "'whither thou goest"' (in unattributed quotes), and so on. (Some of this-for example, the high lyric diction throughout Song #15-owes something to the influence of Robert Duncan.)

While not lyrical, there is elaboration in another register also: the vocabulary of "anabatic," "asymptotic," "monophysite," "chthonic," and the like, mixed together with scat-like plays-"Split script . . . remit" (#21), equally unaccented, under- played-instances of writerly and intellectual play ironically resisting the aural play which is there in the writing.

The unaffected tone, then, with its limited dynamic and tonal range, serves to counter the elaborate diction and phraseology, providing an aural correlative of the counter-syntactical line-break on the printed page, rather than trying to reproduce the visual lineation in temporal terms." The voice is unwilling to concede connections, to make them seem too facile.12

Prepositions are consistently punched, often to odd effect, in Mackey's reading. While possibly serving to defamiliarize content, this accent is itself a significant content feature of a work which so concerns itself with movement, direction, and place, with an unmapped journey across shifting terrain. The prepositions suggest a distinction: beyond means not within;from means not to; in not out. The emphasis thus serves to dismiss an alternative understanding. Prepositions are, by definition,

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gestural: one gestures in a direction, inwardly, outwardly, toward, at. Thus, Song #23: "a story not behind but infront of where this was"; and Song #24: "out no less a part of it than in, / in and out, / such the one place they might meet....")

"Creaking" has preoccupied Mackey, in his critical book Discrepant Engagements- discrepant, as in crepitate, creaking-as well as in his poetry: the noisy friction of bringing together things ordinarily disparate, heterogeneous. But, as he has observed (O'Leary 33), he is not himself "creaking" vocally. To the contrary, he has removed charisma, dynamic range, and anything but the most basic cadences (and a pleasant timbre), from his oral reading. The "smoothness" Mackey mentions in the O'Leary interview may consist in the rounding off of phrases into two-beat segments, but also in a rounding off of diction and even of sense.l3 The shaving off of pronouns at the

beginnings of phrases is an example of irreferential "smoothness." (In some cases, a

pronoun would also make a line too familiar: "Sat at the bar in the long night lounge"(#19) conceals the rather stock noir opening of "I sat at the bar in the long night lounge.")

Mackey's raspiness is in prosody, in a lineation not echoed in the oral reading. If the line is "adventuresome," as O'Leary says, if it scats, as Mackey suggests, the voice does not. Strick's raspiness insists ("Rasp our lone resort" [#20]) against the epiphanic dimensions of the music.

Even while the music often responds to a level under the referential, mimetic resonances and correspondences stand out. Examples either of direct correspondence or mutual reference between the verbal and the musical would include those mo- ments when word and music stop, start, or pause simultaneously. Such pauses are often followed by a musical interlude leading into the next section of a Song or an interlude between songs. But many of the instances of congruence in Strick are also referential or thematic unisons. Royal Hartigan comments on the hiss of hands on snare drum skin which opens Song #16, preceding the first words of Strick-"They were dredging the sea, counting the sand": " I was hearing it as the sound of the sea and the sound of the wind on the sand...." Later in the same Song, one hears the simple rhythmic click of a drumstick on a woodblock, prefiguring the verbal mention of it-"beating time with a dry stick." Before or after the word, the musicians find

ways to enter and exit, referentially, the planes of the spoken poem. There are also a number of instances where words refer to music, such as the coda

of #17, announced as "Sung to hammer and anvil accompaniment." Musically, this section is one of the least diffuse or digressive of Strick. The rhythmic texture is thick and highly syncopated: a complex hand-clap pattern, with some of the beats filled in

by Hartigan's foot, accented by Modirzadeh's vocal imitation of a conch or trumpet. The rhythmic period of the handclaps is, for Western ears, next to impossible to hear without knowing that it is an 11/16 Indian time cycle (two bars of 4, one of 3). It is an instance of Hartigan's insistence that it is not a matter of "just making stuff up." In the poem, Mackey tells of a person who, "knocked on the head," obsessed, pronounces "Let no tool touch another," then chokes on a kola nut set out for Ogun. He dies

abruptly as the music ends: "Dead but for the book they thumbed."

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But perhaps the most obvious instance of music's referentiality is in #21, which opens "Then a Brazilian cut came on," after which we hear a drum-set playing a Brazilian bossa with a flute playing through jazz-bossa changes. When later the poet mentions samba and carnival, the music complies. This Song thus has a consistency and coherence that owes as much to the referential cues introduced by the instrumen- talists as to the spoken word.

Royal Hartigan is a percussionist who has studied traditional musics of (and in) many cultures, including those of Tibet, Malaysia, China, the Philippines, and West Africa. It was Hartigan, having met Mackey through the saxophonist in Hartigan's quintet, who first worked out with Mackey some general musical concepts for Strick. Hafez Modirzadeh's emphasis, in addition to the jazz background the two musicians share, is Iranian traditional music. While Modirzadeh sees the woodwind instruments, techniques, and scales he plays as "sound tools," Hartigan's position is more committed, prescriptive, or, some might say, essentialist: he believes in the sacred roles of third-world instruments as well as of the indigenous scales, rhythms, figures, and techniques, and generally opposes their decontextualization and use in postmodern eclectic modes. For Hartigan, culture implies ownership; cultures belong to someone(s). Art is spiritual, not merely technical, and any change in a culture's music should take place along traditional lines: "If I'm going to play an instrument in another context, a person from the culture should be there, preferably a master drummer, at the concert."

Thus, characteristically, Hartigan approached Strick with an eye toward themes that would make cultural as well as musical sense: He and Mackey discussed references in given passages; he suggested instrumentation, rhythms and melodies, and then, together, they made choices. But Hartigan has not been altogether comfort- able with the lack of specificity. He offers an example of selecting a bendir and a nay for a passage with a Middle Eastern feeling, often on the basis of Arabic words in the text. He comments, "Now maybe that's not enough. Maybe we shouldn't have used those instruments at all unless it's a really obvious clear-cut representation of something from the Middle East-well, then we've done wrong."

Hafez Modirzadeh, by contrast, sees culture as a process realized by the individual. He says he could relate personally to the Song of the Andoumboulou as a hybrid text, enjoying it because of its hybridity. "In Iran, I was seen as hybrid, as someone who shouldn't even pick up a nay." As an Iranian-American tenor saxophonist, Modirza- deh acknowledges his primary source in jazz and his secondary source in Persian traditional music through his teacher, Iranian violinist Mahmoud Zoufonoun. Unlike Hartigan, Modirzadeh insists he should not be seen as representing authentic Persian music. Instead, he sees himself as playing these instruments in strictly impressionis- tic, "non-authentic" contexts.

The binary opposition which Hartigan's foundationalism and Modirzadeh's con- structivism seem to offer is more evident when stated philosophically than musically. To listen to Hartigan's kulintang and Modirzadeh's zorna, or the cross-rhythmic layering of Hartigan's intricate West African 11/16 handclaps with Modirzadeh's "African-inspired" off-time conch sound, is to hear differing but complementary

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takes on world music. Hartigan will play a Turkish usul pattern on the bendir, learned from Turkish master musicians, while Modirzadeh plays the Persian nay, using Persian scales (which he is just as likely to use on the tenor) but improvising freely. Some of this, one could argue, is inherent in the instrumentation: drums convention-

ally provide a grid for melody, which is free to invent over that grid. But in fact, purity on either side, at any stage, is difficult to police: Hartigan is also playing his usul

pattern on a frame drum made by Remo with a synthetic head, just as on another cut he plays a West African ntrowa (rattle) pattern on the high hat. Similarly, Modirzadeh is playing a zorna with an oboe reed, preferring its sound to the blasting outdoor sound of the thick "original" zorna reed. Both musicians are engaged in hybrid, transnational activity.14

"Purity" is too easy a target, and I do not wish to diminish the importance of

Hartigan's insistence on the sacred, a dimension too easily forgotten in the age of Yanni (though arguably Yanni reminds us of it more than either Phillip Glass or Puff

Daddy); nevertheless, I feel the intuitive-or perhaps just American-appeal of Modirzadeh's comment that these are "things we're working through that will never be worked out completely." Indeed, for Modirzadeh, the important thing here is that "the context is Andoumboulou, that it starts with Nate's text." The latter is written and thus, for Modirzadeh, unchanging. "When [Mackey] starts reading, in his dry tone, I can play anything. What I play is complementary with Andoumboulou. The Song of the Andoumboulou forces every musician to work on his self-realization process."

These two perspectives on music must be seen in conjunction with Mackey's own somewhat non-essentialist view of culture: "We have given genealogies, but we also have adopted genealogies. We create our genealogies as much as they are given to us and fixed for us" [O'Leary 36].)

As for Mackey's "dry tone," Modirzadeh sees it as ideal. It is because of that tone that the musicians have the room they have. The absence of the affected, inflated voice familiar from "performance" poets meant, for Modirzadeh, that "it let me scream 'charred bodies'; I'm doing that," rather than the poet. Further, "Nate didn't have to

put on any show because it's in his work, in his words."

In discussing Strick as a work about music, I have given some examples both of musical motifs within the poem and of intercommentaries between the poem and the instrumental music. Let me offer two more of these intercommentaries in order to further suggest the differing semiotic potentials and ambitions of words and music in a word-music performing ensemble.

Song #18 is the longest and most complex of the ten Songs. It is also the most theoretical, pondering as it does problems of both identity and language-"opaque pronouns," on the one hand, and, on the other, the aspiration to the condition of music

suggested by "words wanting not to be words," not refusing the referential or mimetic but resisting the closing down of horizons which words can effect.

Hartigan plays the donno in 6/8 with a 4/4 high hat pattern. Modirzadeh plays the

suling, shifting later to the Arab nay. On the verbal level, the obsessiveness of

repetition, of stammer, is nowhere more striking than here, among Mackey's profu- sion of pronouns-"he to him / she to her / they to them." Particularly problematic

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is the search for a viable first-person plural. After the "numbed he / numbed she / numbed we," comes a series of rejected we's: "No we of romance we contrived

coupling / no nation's we / collectivity's wish...." and "We / made of how many / who could say?"

There are, apart from the opening, two principal musical interludes, neither of them extended. After the first, the poet comments: "Sounds so abstruse / we stuck our heads / where did it come from? / point song / pointlessness...," construable as a

disappointment with the inarticulacy and ungroundedness of music. The longing for collective identity, which has looked hopefully to music-"dreamt articulation / dreamt wordless rapport"-is complicated by doubts regarding language-"as though what we say was all we had / that words be would with words"-and its nonrefer-

entiality: "where they [words] pointed not beside the point though almost." But the

commentary following the second interlude, consisting of an intense interplay of

suling and donno, is still more telling as regards the place of music in a world of neither "wordless rapport" nor reliable referential language:

Sound ravelling sound

Calling itself eternity No known locale

though names accrue

Locales and their constructedness are, as we have seen, a principal topos in Strick, but here the locales are purely musical. The lines seem to comment on roles or postures of music-as transcendent, epiphanic, ecstatic-but also on a situation in which the world music surrounding these words, while derived from a dozen or more cultures, is now, as are the names read by the poet, run through the hatchel like strick, disseminated, in spite of the qualms of the performers, in a postmodern milieu where it can only "accrue" names, not be essentialized by them. In such a situation, where both subject and music are deracinated, "sound is their adamant recompense."

Finally, Song #23 offers perhaps the clearest single evocation of the situation of the musician/travelers in Strick. In print it bears the subtitle "rail band," which, while

unspoken in the oral performance, nevertheless suggests itself often, reminding us of

Mackey's theme of the poet who "would be" a musician, and who depicts a back-

reaching search by a nomadic group of players. This Song opens with the line

Another cut was on the box as we pulled in

immediately followed by the energetic entrance of sax and drum set (drums in

polyrhythmic 6/8, tenor blowing freely). The travelers find themselves at "The Station Hotel," in Bamako, but it is a case of deja vu: "The same scene / glimpsed again / and again said to be a sign." The scene is hallucinatory: "men covered with mud," a "pond filled with water white as milk," "[t]hree chanting clouds / that were crowds of winged men" and "a veiled rider / Shaykh Hamallah." The "atavistic band" is

apparently "put under house arrest." They-the band-are

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Souls in motion conducive to motion too loosely connected to be called a band

yet "if souls converse" vowed results from a dusty record

ages old

The "motion" is clear enough in all of these travels by train, bus, and plane. But, "'if souls converse,"' as with "dreamt wordless rapport"-the hope inherent in Ouadada for a collective conversation-then results must come, again, from a "cut," from "a

dusty record / ages old." Travel itself offers no progress toward that end; the band

always arrives too late.

Tenuous Kin we called our would-be band Atthic Ensemble run with as if it was a mistake we made good on

gone soon as we'd gotten there

There are suggestions here as in other songs that the travelers are not really moving geographically. Their ec-stasis does not take them out of a place (Ouagadougou, D.C.) but out of subjective and musical stasis. The first song of Strick mentions "the same

cry, taken up in Cairo, C6rdoba, north Red Sea near Nagfa, Muharak...." Here, in #23, it is "[t]he same scene / glimpsed again and again...."

The musical interlude between Songs 22 and 23-at a minute and a half, the longest in Strick-formally echoes that pan-Mediterranean cry set up at the outset of the

journey. Modirzadeh overdubs tenor and Persian nay, while Hartigan plays bendir and high-hat. It is a medium-slow 7/4 rhythm with the nay setting up a two-bar

pattern behind the long, modal tenor lines. I transcribe here only the basic pattern of the nay and bendir and the beginning of the tenor solo. It is perhaps the clearest single expression of that "same cry," a musical correlative to the ethnic reach of Strick.

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Interlude, Song #22-23

A I I I I I I I I I t I I

Tenor sax

Bendir

Tenor sax

Bendir

j. J r _,Jr J.I ij' -- IJ ,. J r J .i ad lib

- - - IJ - - J -

Strick is a work of ontopology, of sites of the self and their constructedness.

Alternatively, it is, to use a coinage of Claude Levi-Strauss, a work of entropology. Mackey's travelers, in their journeys through vanished or vanishing cultures, illegible palimpsests, and lost languages, share dreams of an early oneness: "Dreamt articulation, dreamt wordless rapport, dreamt entanglement, torn at the roots..." (18). Music, as an experience in which, like a stretched skin or string, the self vibrates as Other, also seems to offer this promise. Music, as a return to a mystical or pre-natal oceanic state, is the condition which the travelers of Strick often seek, even though or because, they say, "we'd been that way before" (#18).

And yet Strick's gesture is to reject nostalgia. The numerous rejected "we's" of Song #18 ("No we of romance...no nation's we...") are strongly anti-nostalgic. The book thumbed in Song #23, "if it was a book," is "the book of having once been there... all wish to go back let go." Even given the infusion of nostos throughout the poem, of the need for a viable Ouadada, the principal thrust is anti-nostalgic. The book so often mentioned (but never cited) is also "no book of a wished else / the where we thumbed," rejecting the attachment of genealogical hopes to travel.15 If those hopes are evoked anywhere it is in the music-the long sinuous nay notes, the resonant bendir-and the referential dimensions of those scales and rhythms: the musical

symptom of the aftermath of trauma, which is also its memory; the continuity of a mournful Andalusian/Arab voice across the Mediterranean. These are imbued with almost irresistible nostalgia, suggesting both the tug of ancient things and the merit of Royal Hartigan's views on rootedness.

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The first Song of Strick sets out the theme of the dreadful having already happened, of a now-accustomed loss: "what song there was," "what where we had left," "what we

they exacted," "what plot there was" are all phrases, throughout Strick, of the "what-

sayer," pointing not to Utopian elements but to meagerness, an entropic, desolated universe. Yet, beleaguered by counter-transcendent elements in both voice and music, a deeply qualified hope permeates the Songs: "We knew there was a world somewhere / How to get there no / Would we get there no" (Song 20).

By the end of Strick, after a history as much of music and love-making as of beating and ruin, the travelers are faced with unreadable horizons on every side, especially on the inside, where pronouns, traces of identity-effects, have proliferated beyond any hope for articulable identity. Arriving at an outside commensurable with their inmost desires, they are forced to reflect that "inasmuch as what we want was unreal / there it stood." Their "genetic letter," like the illegible book so often thumbed in Strick, presents an "inaccessible alphabet." The place itself is as bewildered as the travelers-and there is some doubt whether it is a place: twice the narrator asks, "Was it a place?" The narrator's name, like his DNA, like all the letterless "books," is a cipher ("Hollow be my name"). But a deferred and finally failed arrival (at Ouagadougou D.C. instead of Ouadada) is only a failure if the traveler is unable to shape his own desire and destination. The mobile element is, as usual, not the geographical world but the subjective (and the musical). On a trackless road, the travelers, like the Beckett narrator who ends The Unnameable with "I can't go on. I'll go on," neigh like horses and head "pa'l monte"- that is, in a last echo of Latin American folk music, "for the hills."16 More to come.

Appendix

List of Instruments Used on Strick

Woodwinds:

tenor saxophone zorna-[sur=celebration; nay=reed] Iranian double-reed instrument, variants of

which are used from Morocco to Shanghai, including the Indian shenai. About one and a half octaves in range, mostly used for modal music. An outdoor instrument used

by Sufis, acrobats, soldiers. Modirzadeh plays it with a bassoon reed. suling-Indonesian recorder-like instrument, often heard in Gamelan. Modirza-

deh's is from Sumatra. Two octaves, Javanese slendro pentatonic scale. Arab nay-vertical cane flute with metal ring at embouchure. Seven tones. Persian nay-played with flute placed inside mouth; player grips edge of reed

with teeth. Six tones.

punji-bagpipe-sounding horn from Rajastan, North India, with two single reeds

placed inside mouth, one a drone, the other with six finger holes.

Percussion:

drum set Chinese opera percussion: ban-clapper and wood block; tan pi ku-drum; nao

bo-cymbals; xiao luo-small gong; da luo-large gong.

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kulintang-Philippine gong chime. donno-West African string tension, double-headed, hourglass-shaped drum. bendir-Turkish frame drum.

zirbaghali-gobletdrum

I with to thank Royal Hartigan and Hafez Modirzadeh, whose insights into music theory in general and the Strick project in particular were indispensable for this article. Thanks also to composer Joel Friedman for helping me transcribe with the Finale program. I am grateful to Seton Hall University for a University Research Council stipend which enabled me to do much of this work.

1. Song of the Andoumboulou 1-7 appeared in Eroding Witness, 8-15 in School of Udhra. Numbers 16- 25 appear in the following publications: #16: River City, 14.2 (Spring 1994); #17: New American Writing 2 (Summer/Fall 1993); #18: Poetry Project Newsletter 149 (April/May 1993); #19: The World 49 (April 1994); #20: Fourteen Hills 2.1 (Fall 1995); #21 and 22: apex of the M 1 (Spring 1994); #23, 24, and 25: Sulfur 34 (Spring 1994); Song of the Andoumboulou 18-20 also appeared as a chapbook from Moving Parts Press. A forthcoming collection, "Strick" and "Stra," will continue the "Song" through number 35.

2. As Mackey has explained, in Dogon mythology the Andoumboulou are an earlier, flawed form of human being, an unviable rough draft. They are invoked at the time of Dogon funeral ceremonies. "My understanding of it is that the Andoumboulou become relevant in a ritual that is marking death and mortality, the failure of human life to sustain itself indefinitely, because they are figures of frailty and failure" (O'Leary 6).

3. Denise Levertov, Charles Olson, and Allen Ginsberg would be among those who insisted on lineation's still serving aural demands. Olson's "breath line" is notable here.

4. My parenthetical notes will refer to Song number rather than page or journal. I will also italicize words heard as emphasized in Mackey's delivery.

5. Ouagadougou is a city in Burkina-faso (formerly Upper Volta) in Mossi country. "D.C." is not part of its name. "Ouagadougou D.C." certainly suggests the possibility of codes for a states- wide trip by bus and train.

6. For descriptions of non-Western musical instruments, see Appendix. 7. This and other beats are demonstrated on Hartigan's compact disk West African Rhythms for the

Drumset. It can also be heard in a contemporary context on his Blood Drum Spirit. It is worth noting that, contrary to appearances, there is no percussion overdubbing on Strick. (Modirza- deh does overdub at times, for example with tenor saxophone and nay.)

8. Nathaniel Mackey is coeditor, with Art Lange, of Moment's Notice: Jazz in Poetry and Prose. His radio show, "Tanganyika Strut," airs on KUSP-FM, a community station in Santa Cruz, California. Mackey includes free jazz, American gospel, folk, and blues, and ethnic music of various countries and regions-Andalusia, Tunisia, Somali, and many more. The common strand is a concern with improvised music. He has long had an interest in the "new music" emanating from New York around the 1960s and since: Don Cherry, Ed Blackwell, Archie Shepp, Albert Ayler, Pharaoh Sanders, Sunny Murray, and others. "N," the narrator of From a Broken Bottle Traces of Perfume Still Emanate, is a member of an improvisational horn ensemble, which travels in search of a drummer.

9. Many instrumental works have been written as glosses on poetic texts. Kramer discusses some of these, including Liszt's renditions of Dante and Goethe and Debussy's Prelude to the Afternoon of a faun, written to elucidate Mallarme's poem, the latter arguably less referential than Debussy's music.

10. In My Way, Charles Bernstein writes that "the dreaded monotone style is not only / appropriate but / powerful and evocative." I should note that the present article was written before I became aware of Bernstein's anthology Close Listening (1998), to which I refer anyone interest- ed in the many directions a discussion about performance and poetry can take.

11. This effect has been discussed in other mid- to late-century poetry that uses archaic diction. See Robert Pinsky, for example, in The Situation of Poetry, on the subject of John Berryman, regarding the undercutting of the high poetic phrase with jazzy or slang diction.

12. Mackey's reading style is consistent with "serious" poetry reading through most of this century in the United States and England. The unemotive style, whether of Auden or Williams, is a legacy of post-WWI anti-Romanticism. Exceptions have been few in English (Dylan Thomas, Vachel Lindsay) until the recent flowering of American popular and performance

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poetry. The contrast has often been made with East European, Mediterranean, and Latin American poets-Neruda's or Vosnesensky's groans, whispers, howls.

13. "What you do is find a certain smoothness in the way you put those materials together. There is a kind of flow and continuity even though you're moving among different domains of discourse and you're going from one realm of the world to another. It's not that as a reader of poetry I'm doing anything at the vocal level that has that kind of raspy and discordant quality" (O'Leary 33).

14. "Authenticity" in music is not a matter confined to third-world instruments or styles, as anyone knows who has participated in discussions of European "early music." To play a Bach sonata on a pianoforte is to some early music devotees no more defensible than to play it on an electric guitar.

15. Strick's "book," so often "thumbed," the idea of land as text and the idea of a home to which it is too late or too difficult to return-all these echo the lines of Countee Cullen's 1927 poem "Heritage":

Africa? A book one thumbs

Listlessly, till slumber comes.

16. Monte, a word that appears in many Afro-Cuban song lyrics, can be translated as the woods, the wilderness, or the mountains. It is a wild, timeless space outside society and thus has sacred overtones. Jose Piedra argues that it comes from the Dogon word muntu (116). A ready example of its use in song choruses is the guajira "El Carretero," now widely known from the CD by the "Buena Vista Social Club."

WORKS CITED

Bernstein, Charles, ed. Close Listening: Poetry and the Performed Word. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998.

. My Way: Speeches and Poems. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999. Hartigan, Royal. Interview. February 21, 1998 Kramer, Lawrence. Poetry and Music: The Nineteenth Century and After. Berkeley: University Califor-

nia Press, 1984. Lange, Art, and Nathaniel Mackey. Moment's Notice: Jazz in Poetry and Prose. Minneapolis: Coffee

House, 1993. Mackey, Nathaniel. Discrepant Engagements: Dissonance, Cross-Culturality, and Experimental Writing.

Cambridge University Press, 1993. . Djobot Baghostus's Run. Los Angeles: Sun and Moon, 1993. . Eroding Witness. Urbana: University Illinois Press, 1984. . School of Udhra. San Francisco: City Lights, 1993. . "Song of the Andoumboulou: 16." River City 14.2 (Spring 1994). . "Song of the Andoumboulou: 17." New American Writing 2 (Summer/Fall 1993): 36-40. . "Song of the Andoumboulou: 18." The Poetry Project Newsletter 149 (April/May 1993): 8-9. . "Song of the Andoumboulou: 19." The World 49 (April 1994): 104-106. . "Song of the Andoumboulou: 20." Fourteen Hills 2.1 (Fall 1995): 83-96. . "Song of the Andoumboulou: 21 & 22." apex of the M 1 (Spring 1994). . "Song of the Andoumboulou: 23, 24 & 25." Sulfur 34 (Spring 1994). . Strick: Song of the Andoumboulou 16-25. With Royal Hartigan and Hafez Modirzadeh. Spoken

Engine, 7 90807 16252 9, 1995. Messerli, Douglas, ed. From the Other Side of the Century: A New American Poetry 1960-1990. Los

Angeles: Sun and Moon, 1994. Modirzadeh, Hafez. Interview. 28 February 1998. O'Leary, Peter. "An Interview with Nathaniel Mackey." Chicago Review 43.1 (Winter 1997): 30-46. Perloff, Marjorie. "The Linear Fallacy." Georgia Review 35 (1981). Piedra, Jose. "Through Blues." Do the Americas Have a Common Literature? Ed. Gustavo Firmat.

Durham: Duke University Press, 1990. 107-29. Pinsky, Robert. The Situation of Poetry: Contemporary Poetry and its Traditions. New Jersey: Princeton

University Press, 1976. Rohlehr, Gordon. "Introduction." Voiceprint: An Anthology of Oral and Related Poetryfrom the Caribbean.

Ed. Stewart Brown, Mervyn Morris, and Gordon Rohlehr. Essex: Longman, 1989.

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