On December 26th, 2011 I had a conversation with Mayo Thompson about the origins and early work of the Red Krayola. I was particularly interested in the musical "logic" used to record the album Coconut Hotel. I suspected that the Red Krayola was essentially exploring "free improvisation", contemporaneous with groups like AMM and Musica Elettronica Viva. I discussed the album in a presentation at the 2012 International Society for Improvised Music conference in Wayne, NJ, using information from this interview.
45 years ago today, the Red Crayola (Mayo Thompson, Fred Barthelme and Steve Cunningham) played at the Angry Arts Festival near Los Angeles, CA. On July 2nd, 3rd and 4th 1967 they played sets at the Berkeley Folk Music Festival in Berkeley, CA. (These performances were documented on the Drag City release Live 1967.) This seemed like an appropriate time of year to publish the interview. Mr. Thompson has agreed to this publication only; please do not distribute this interview without specific permission.
45 years ago today, the Red Crayola (Mayo Thompson, Fred Barthelme and Steve Cunningham) played at the Angry Arts Festival near Los Angeles, CA. On July 2nd, 3rd and 4th 1967 they played sets at the Berkeley Folk Music Festival in Berkeley, CA. (These performances were documented on the Drag City release Live 1967.) This seemed like an appropriate time of year to publish the interview. Mr. Thompson has agreed to this publication only; please do not distribute this interview without specific permission.
Special thanks to WCBN-FM Ann Arbor whose facilities I used. Thanks also to Alex Belhaj who
engineered the recording of the telephone interview.
engineered the recording of the telephone interview.
Conversation with Mayo Thompson
Part One
What were some of the musical
influences for the Red Crayola? The liner notes in the recent reissue of The Parable of Arable Land mentions the
influence of modern art and philosophy.
Modern art and
philosophy are large subjects. I'd like to know who isn't influenced
by modern art in that sense. These guys – they write fluff, and it
misleads people and there's nothing you can really do about it. There is
no such thing as a straight-up story about what happened, because
memory plays tricks on you; it's just not possible. All I can tell
you is that, as far as influences, we listened to everything
that was going on. If we got a whiff that they were ahead of us we
ran to it to find out if it was true or not.
Can you give an
example?
Albert Ayler, Bells, ESP-Disk 1010, 1965 |
If you're talking about music that one loved as a child, that's a different question; what shaped one in those kinds of ways. Can you narrow it down?
If
someone listened to the first or second Red Crayola record, they may
not immediately think of Albert Ayler or John Coltrane as an
influence on it. They may however think of the 13th
Floor Elevators, for example.
The Elevators certainly would have come in for a look. We compared
ourselves to the Elevators as far as innovation; we thought they were
trying to innovate. We had no idea what they were really doing. We
thought that everybody was innovating, and we were sadly mistaken. It
turned out that very few people were innovating at all; that most
people were interested in spilling their guts in terms that they
were capable of, and that was the end of it.
So you saw
yourselves as separate from most of what was going on?
We found that the concerns that we began with had little to do with
the concerns that other people began with sometimes; in greater
respect when it came to the form and stuff like that. We were
certainly shaped by the “zeitgeist” or some crap like that, but
we felt our difference, and we insisted on it in those days. I don't
anymore, I'm looking for inclusion these days. [But] that was also going on
at the time. That's how we “found each other”, shall we say. But
we didn't run it like an elite, like make fun of other people and act
like they were stupid or something. We were rather in pursuit of some stuff that it turned out not too many other people were in
pursuit of. If any. We met those who understood. John Fahey
understood that we were pushing it around and trying to find out what
novelty there was left in the form, if any. He had gone back and
gotten the very beginnings – he represented “American music”;
we called him “the Master of the American rolls”. When we met him,
there was agreement that the tradition played a role, and we saw
ourselves as coming out of something, and on our way, taking material
as we found it and trying to do something with it. The classic
confrontation.
In a 1996 interview with Richie Unterberger, you describe Coconut Hotel as "the most extreme version of the logic that we could conceive of at that time". Could you say more about the "logic" of the Red Krayola?
We found that logic played a role in our thinking and in nobody else's. It was very simple to operate within parameters; to set up formal problems and work the logical parameters as they appear. Say you want to put some scrutiny on the idea of instruments. You find that on that record. So we start with, “This is a guitar. It has six strings. They are usually not tuned like this. They're played like this, but they usually don't sound like this.” [“Free Guitar”] is an exploration of the guitar as a set piece, as a trap, as an instrument: a thing that produces a certain kind of sound. There is no generic commitment to anything on that record. Idiom is deployed … not at all. There's no quotation in it, as such, there's merely instantiation. And so, expectation and anticipation become quite abstract. You don't sit there and wait for a chorus. If you're waiting for the chorus, you'll find out after so many minutes, "Doesn't look like there's gonna be a chorus here." That kind of stuff; that's what I mean by logic: creating a logical environment in which you set up a number of operators, you specify relations between them, and the results are what you might call facts. Where logic itself is turned into a kind of score.
I'm not claiming we were doing something no one else on Earth was
doing. People were being more perspicuous about it. There was a
bunch of stuff that came up called “process art”, where people
focused on the art of blah blah blah. But we were not proceduralists
in any strict sense. What we were interested in was the sounds that
came out of those situations; the physical sensations that they
generated. This stuff was played as music, it was not played as a
technical notebook.
So these were
not just manifestations of some concept or idea; you were
consciously making music?
To me, those are one. I don't have to be holistic about my content
part of it to recognize that that's just how that thing works. Even
if I set out to be the most technical, dry-boned person in the whole
wide world, someone's gonna say “Oh, a Beckett play.” Or something like that. Let's
say I set out with some kind of concept in mind, that the work is an
illustration; I might try to do that, [but] it's not illustration in
the purest sense of the word. I'm not sure that that's even possible,
because it's been my experience in music that the materials are
resistant. You don't always find what you're listening for. What you
find is what you hear. And then what you do about what you hear …
is where it happens for me.
How does form
play into that?
Say I've got a song in E. I know that the fifth is a B, and I know
that every blues song in the whole wide world has been played this
way, and I know that there's been a blues man who said “We don't
flat our fifths, we drink them,” and that the Bb is “the Devil's
chord”. I am fascinated by this effect, because it's against the
grain. Precisely because everyone says “That's a cheap trick man,
don't do that.” Me, I love a cheap trick. So I want to find it
there's anything in a cheap trick. Because it sure as hell jazzes me.
So I've got a problem: I've got something that jazzes me that
everyone else says is against the rules. So that kind of stuff comes
into it too. It's personal.
I don't have Mozart's problem; nobody's gonna sign off on my score. I
don't have to modify it because I've got a temperamental soprano who
wants some extra stuff in her Don Giovani aria. That's fun; I've
clawed my way into that world where I've worked with that kind of
stuff. But I don't have something that is a “sonata”. I don't
have something that is an “etude” or a “prelude”. I'm not
really familiar with the terms and where they come from. I know the
music, I've been listening to it for a long time, but I don't really
recognize forms as definite things. I could maybe say … hang on a
second. [pause]
I
don't really know how to answer your question. Form plays a role,
I've seen that it makes a difference. But I've approached it rather
by “structure”, let's put it that way. Where other people have
form, I have structure. And in that structure might be something
that's linked, acoustically, historically, with something that is
formal; something that sounds
like a blues. I've built my own structures.
Would
you consider Coconut Hotel to
be “free form” music?
It
is formed, but it is free of historical form. It is not driven by an
organized will to express something definite; something pre-existent;
something scored; something notated; something that can be done again
and again and again provided you have the means and the people. Free
form means “this ain't never gonna happen again. We're about to
have an experience that will not be [had] ever again. I'm not making
any claims about form. It's an oxymoron at best. We didn't coin it,
it was coined by Leland Rogers, [the producer for The
Parable of Arable Land]. The guy
was looking for an advertising slogan. That was his form; that was
his description of what we did. I just clung to it because I'm a nominalist; kinda like Hobbes says to Aristotle, “That's very
good professor, we can work on that when we come to the induction
effect, but what I wanna know is, what are we gonna call it today?”
So I'm just going on what we're calling it historically. What it
winds up being called, I leave to posterity.
What is the
relation of the Familiar Ugly to the Red Crayola?
The
Familiar Ugly was an organization that accompanied, or enveloped, or
just happened while we
played. It was part of the phenomenon then. They were undirected. Open-numbered; any
number above one. If you had the Red Crayola plus one person on
stage, that person was the Familiar Ugly. If there were five, or
fifty, up to an indefinitely large number. When we started the band,
Barthelme and I and we looked around to see if we could put together
a “band”, to take it to the level where we could actually see if
it worked. Both of us could see that it had assonance – people
liked it, liked the “noise” we made. When we met Cunningham, we
also met Bonnie Emerson and Danny Schacht, and we played as a
five-piece. It was alright, it could have gone on, but we were
becoming a regular band: doing covers, the things driving the formal
expressions were idiomatic, and genre-ridden. That was getting
problematic. We were trying to write material, and felt that the only
forward was to generate fresh material, which had some sort of
novelty to it so that we would be satisfied and remain interested in
the problem, in the hopes that there would be some popular assonance
there and see what would happen. And eventually this conversation led
to somebody else joining the band, and then somebody else
joining the band on one night, and we looked at each other and
thought, “Hm.” So when you start a conversation, people who can
participate will.
And here they were, my goodness, what are we gonna do? this band
could get to be … if you pursue a notion of culture along the lines
of family resemblance, pretty soon everybody in the world will be
in this band. That's … okay, but we want to be able to direct the
thing to some extent. So we withdrew to a trio: Cunningham, Barthelme
and I, and told the rest that it was over as a band. That we were
gonna pursue this other line, which was that we were not gonna be
bound by conventions. We didn't actively say this, but it turned out
that we were not gonna be bound by conventions. We weren't gonna make
the same record twice. With the first record, we felt that we had
proven what point we felt there was to prove about chaos,
organization within it, and its relation to chaos; how it
demonstrates chaos, and at the same time can be counted at an
interval as some … later we discovered the notion of “data”,
and some data take the form of information, which is a better, easier
way of explaining it.
So with the first record, we generated musical data; we made data
under the premise of music, and asked the question, “Is it?” Then
we put some stuff in there by convention, and traditionally we'd say
“Yes, this is at least a try at music.”
Can you clarify
the difference between “data” and “information”?
The Red Crayola, The Parable of Arable Land International Artists, IA LP-2, 1967 |
So the Parable takes care of that business. And then it was
like, “Okay, what next?” And then we took what logical point had been
made: sound as music, sounds of musical instruments, played not in musical ways;
treated as instruments for expression. The only organizational
principle is that people see what's happening and hear what's
happening around them. It's always music minus r plus 1; you're
listening to some phenomenon and you think “Listen to that. I
wonder what I contributed to it.” Well there's one way to find out
for sure: stop playing. That's the only way I know to find out. Stop
playing. And that's demonstrated also in Parable: you make one
sound, that's fine. You can isolate one sound, but you can't do like
you can on a painting. On a painting, you put one mark here, and
leave a little bit of space and you put another mark. In an acoustic
space, if you put two sounds, those sounds are already interfering
with each other if they're simultaneous. You can play one and turn it
off; you play another one and then turn it off. Then you add those
two sounds differentiated, then you play one and then you play the
other one at the same time; then you have a different kind of
relation. All of that stuff comes into play.
Then we go to a recording studio. Recording studios are kinds of
museums in a way, technological museums. They have sound making
devices and recording devices that go back to the beginnings of our
ability to do these kinds of things. If they're a good recording
studio. And we happened to be at a really good one, run by a
first-class guy Walt Andrus. And he knew right away what was up with
the acoustics of it, and put up 8 microphones. We only had mono
capacity in those days, there was no possibility of
multi-tracking. That's live, the sound of all that stuff on
Parable.
The Red Krayola, Coconut Hotel. Drag City DC62, 1995 |
We were also constrained by what we saw had gone on. We saw Cage and
Tudor and those people as having exhausted the potential of
smartypants farting around with means of production. And we thought,
“This is the end of it, there's nothing after this music-wise.”
Were you
frustrated about this?
No, happy.
Why was that?
To us, we relished midnight because it meant the day was over; you never
had to live that motherfuckin' day again.
So what came
next?
There's also no singing. There's only two uses of the human voice on
[Coconut Hotel]. I sing in there some nonsense metaphysical
line about “There is no reason why not”, you know, pretentious
stuff, and Frank Davis moans into the headphone, [imitates moaning],
he's got on a pair of headphones, not over his ears – one of them
it over his mouth, and as you know a headphone is a microphone. The
speaker is a microphone. He was yelling down this headphone line,
sending it to a tiny little Fender amp which he's got in his hand,
and he's walking around between these to microphones, back and forth.
And something is going on in his mind – I don't know, and it turned
out to be some strange drama when you throw in the koto and the water
pouring.
And then we confronted the issue of repetition. That piece [“Water
Pour”] is just duplicated; it happens twice. That's Mozart: he
writes you a section, and he plays it to you twice. Then he goes
onto the next section and plays that one for you twice. So that the
stuff is imprinted in some way, and the second time through, you have
a different relation to the anticipations and expectations and so on,
and what you have is very satisfying. That's at the level of … the
brain's love of symmetry and pattern. He delivers it like nobody's
business, synthesizing Bach and baroque with one hand, and with the
other hand making himself a cheese sandwich or pouring himself a
glass of champagne.
So all that stuff was done for us; all we had to do was just add to
the sounds, which were built into the instruments; we didn't have to
do much there either. There were a bunch of keyboards there, so we
got going on them. There was a pump keyboard, an electric keyboard,
an amplified keyboard, and so on, so all the permutation aspects were
at work. The musical qualities of the sounds they produced are the
overarching criteria of expression. Not monkey business. And where
there is some figuration, it's not worked to thematic ends, merely
[as] individual events. So you take the guitar going [sings steady
quick rhythm], playing these 16th notes. Then there's
another guitar which is free, to play something that simulates a
melodic relationship of something over a rhythmic ground. So it
sounds like “guitar music”. Lo and behold, it is guitar
music! It's as mundane as that.
So we thought that “Everybody's thinking about these kinds of
problems. Everybody's thinking about the fact that everything has
been done. Everybody's thinking about how the material that Schoenberg
founded was handed off to Cage and Stockhausen and they handed it
off to us, and here we are, and this is about all that's left.”
Do you feel like
music is still at that state?
No, I don't think anybody cares about that kind of thinking. That's
what I found. Endgame is an end in itself, and it only counts to the
people who are prepared to play it. Otherwise, nobody gives a damn.
We all know that life goes on. Ob-la-di oh-blah-blah. Bloody hell.
I think that these are still interesting structural facts. One can
mediate one's production in more and less thoughtful ways and come up
with stuff that has novelty to it; the novelty doesn't depend on “I
am unique and nobody else can do this but me, and I did this and
that's new. And that's genius because nobody else could do this.”
It's not a dependency on the primitive. And that's the fly in the
expressive ointment for me: the boring fact is that I can't do
anything other than what I do. I wish I could. If I could be somebody
else, boy I would have been. It's only projective, that's all.
There's no escape. The aim in the 60's from my side was, “Is there
any way other than having to do this the way that it's usually been
done up 'till now?” Gee, no. There's no way out.
(in conversation with Matt Endahl on December 26th, 2011)
Part Two coming soon.