Poor old Amy

I just heard the sad news about Amy Winehouse's death.

She was in a tough position.

In a great TED talk, Liz Gilbert muses on what a difficult position contemporary arts culture puts artists in.

Back in the day, she said, artistic inspiration was understood to be about more than the individual. The creative at work was inspired, in-spired; spirit was in the house. The creative was a channel. Upon her shoulder sat a 'genie' - etymological origin of 'genius' - some small creature who would pour the ideas into the creative, who would then pour them into the work. If the musician was fabulous, they were lucky to have a great genie. It wasn't all about them. If they were having a fallow period, bad old genie wasn't showing up for work. The ego was protected from taking direct responsibility for the inevitable peaks and troughs in creative productivity.

Not so these days with our secular ideas: the individual is responsible for the greatness when the work is great, and has lost it, fallen from grace, when the work lacks spark.

It puts the ego in a difficult place. Especially for someone as talented as Amy. Huge inflation from the huge audiences, deals, money, fame. Huge crashes when her identity struggles to healthily accommodate these bloated notions.

She would have struggled too, I imagine, with the absence of a grounding humility in the idea of the role of the musician.

I once sung with some Kora players from Mali and was struck by their humble, generous, relaxed and playful attitude towards making and sharing music. The Kora player in Mali plays a cultural service, they explained to me, with three main roles. Firstly, to hold the values of the culture that are embedded in the traditional songs. Their role is to learn the songs, know the songs, teach the songs and sing the songs so that the people remember who they are and what they value. (The Shona songs from Zimbabwe that I sing with Chartwell play a similar role in carrying values. "Where will I be when the problem comes? I will be with my father" are the lyrics to one entire song. It tells a lot about the role of a father. "Don't make the children wear patchwork: patchwork clothes are only for adults," sings another. Patchwork fabric is a sign of poverty. If there is poverty, the priority is to protect the children from feeling poor, the song instructs.)

Two more roles for the Kora player from Mali: to create a party atmosphere for weddings and celebrations, and to keep the peace. The kora is wonderfully soothing - you've heard Toumani Diabate right? So, if you argue with, say, your partner, someone will go and fetch the nearest kora player to come and sit nearby and play the kora while you argue. And when he does, you will not be able to help but soften. You will soften into a way of communicating that is less violent, and as a result, face a better chance of hearing and being heard, and finding a resolution to your conflict.

How cool is that?

I think we need these ideas as musicians, of service, of embedded social role, of being a channel for 'god' rather than 'god' itself.

Malidoma Some agrees. He says:

"[Artistic] talents are widely recognised in indigenous communities because indigenous people assume that the artist is a priest or a priestess through whom the Other World finds an entrance into this world. If the priest or the priestess regards with reverence and humility the world where his or her art originates, then the work done becomes lasting and impressive. If not, the artist does not last very long."  - The Healing Wisdom of Africa

I bet a lot of people helped Amy to package herself - her sound, her appearance, her songs, her stage presence, her CDs, her financial management.

I wonder if anybody helped Amy to see the enormous talent she had been given in this way.

Somehow I doubt it. These ideas are not prevalent in our culture.

Poor Amy.

Genius

The artist in Dagara, Burkina Faso

"Community can create a container for natural abilities that can find no place in a world defined by economics and consumerism - abilities such as artistic talent or shamanic gifts, healing skills and clairvoyance. These talents are widely recognised in indigenous communities because indigenous people assume that the artist is a priest or a priestess through whom the Other World finds an entrance into this world. If the priest or the priestess regards with reverence and humility the world where his or her art originates, then the work done becomes lasting and impressive. If not, the artist does not last very long. The artist as an artisan of the sacred can cooperate in bringing the sacred to birth in this world. Indigenous people believe that without artists, the tribal psyche would wither into death. Carvers and painters produce their things for ritual purposes, which are enjoyed by the entire village. Storytellers act like the repository of the village genealogical memory.

"Artistic ability, the capacity to heal, and the vision to see into the Other World are connected for indigenous people. In my village there is only a thin line between the artist and the healer. In fact, there is no word in the Dagara language for art. The closest term to it would be the same word as sacred. It is as if there is an intrinsic sacredness to artistic symbolism. This is perhaps why art objects do not go on show. This is also perhaps why the artist does not think about how to gain public stature. In the village the ability to birth art is a sign of approval by the Spirit World.

...

"... collecting art objects in one place, to indigenous people, would be a sign that people want something from the Other World that is not being supplied adequately; they would be experiencing a thirst that is not being quenched. And, even more important, it would mean that the community is in struggle, is experiencing a longing for the sacred. In such a place of struggle, the longing for the sacred is so enhanced that people are collecting art objects. From an indigenous point of view, the isolation of self and community from Spirit appears to have translated into the imprisonment of art. The museums of the West, from an indigenous perspective, speak poignantly of the sharply felt longing for Spirit experienced by modern people."

Malidoma Some, the healing wisdom of africa, p96-7

What a musician might need

There are some things I need as a musician. That I think anyone needs in order to practice something when they're alone. It starts with not being alone any more.

1. An Elder. Doesn't have to be older. Has to be someone to inspire and guide and help you: someone who wants to do that and is interested in your development.
2. A community. Loads of functions there. To make it fun. To make it social. Not lonely.
3. A point. In yoga the point is to feel and look good. Later it's to pass a difficult exam and gain a qualification, to further ends. What is it for this art? Joy! Pleasure! Your pleasure, and the pleasure of the community. So, you need opportunities to share what you're doing with the community. Like, Lucy's 'Little Show-Offs' community cabaret.
4. A sense of development path. A sense that there are people further advanced than you – and people less advanced than you perhaps – that you have a collaborative and supportive relationship with people at every stage – and a feeling that you are able to progress.

   
   

   On performance

   I've been quite anti performance for a while. I prefer things where everyone is a participant.

   
   

   I've been gently playing with the idea that there might be an interesting middle ground.

   
   

   I'm thinking of a performers playground, a place to practice. My music – a music of honest, heart led improvisation – has more in common with the Clowns and the Fools than with the jazz singers and open mic kids.

   
   

   So it would be a performers playground for all those working on honest, partly or totally improvised, heart led performance where the relationship with the audience is messed up.

   
   

   In Jonathan Kay's Fooling performance, he had the audience forming a vagina and someone from the back being born onto the stage through us. He had us facing each other and pulling faces and hurling insults. And he had us crying with laughter with some straight forward standup. Perfect.
   Bobby Mcferrin: same. Solo performance and playing with the audience.
   So. How would I do it? What would I do? That's the thing to play with.
   Why perform?
   
   
   I'd like to perform for people who are also doing stuff. I loved performing with the scratch band at Findhorn when everyone else was either dancing or singing. I loved that! I'd like to perform for people life drawing or dancing or something. I'd like to improvise with and for them. I'd like it to be woven into an activity; part of it but not the central focus.
   So why claim a stage all for yourself?
   Partly it's to show off, right? What experience does Bobby Mcferrin give people when he stands up and does Opportunity? We're impressed! We see what a human can be capable of. We're entertained I guess. We enjoy it! Do we? I get a little intimidated too sometimes. But only by musicians. Not by dancers or comedians, because I'm not in their game. I just watch / listen / laugh with delight.
   Is there something about... sharing?
   “You made the whole room feel like being inside honey”
   “Listening to you sing is taking an asthma inhaler. It slows and calms you down and makes you breathe.”
   “We were having an intellectual and aggressive conversation. Then you came in the room and started playing and the atmosphere totally changed, became gentle.”
   That's good, isn't it? Isn't that something worth sharing if you can?
   When we see hearts on stage are we reminded of our own?
   When we're rushing and then we see someone being slow, are we reminded we can slow down too?
   If we are fretful and we see someone at peace, can that help us find our own peace?
   ..
   I watched a Bobby workshop on Youtube and all the people he was working with were coming to the front and basically copying him, with quite boastful performances.
   Bobby spent four years not listening to other music, finding his own sound.
   What is your own music? Your true music?
   What is mine?
   What are the status of our performances? Are they to help launch our professional careers? Are they events in and of themselves – for the joy of the performer and the community present?
   So, after any performance, the question will be: was it joyful for you? Was it joyful for them? Yes? Then it was a success!
   ?

Free Birds

I lie in the park at the end of the penultimate day of Jazz Summer School, almost in tears. All day, almost all week, my noise-making has been tightly controlled by a central person – a composer, a conductor, a tutor.

Where is the space in our world to sing like a free bird?

Who puts the birds in a circle and dictates what they must sing?

Who rounds up the Whales?

Simply left to make noise together, humans create such beauty and magic. I've felt it time and time again. With central control, quality, pleasure and presence get diminished.

Walking slowly away from the Guildhall building I feel such a terrible weight. I feel it in my body and I've seen it grow on everyone's faces as the day progresses.

I feel angry with the rigidity of the structures that try to control us so tightly and kill our pleasure.

For our beautiful innate music is not allowed to find itself.

Last night in the studio theatre I did my first ever entirely improvised performance. Actually it wasn't entirely improvised. I knew the five or six chords on the piano I'd be using, but I didn't know in which order. I knew the rhythm and tempo of the piano playing that I'd use as a base. And I knew the first note I'd sing.

It went down really well. “You make being in the room feel like being inside honey.” said one. “I felt as if I was walking by a river, calm and free,” said another. Many questions about my training.

I am extremely untrained, formally. I am simply incredibly honest, and I listen for what the small singer in my tummy is singing, and I copy. And when it is silent, I let myself be silent too. And I trust it. Most of the time...

I have never got on well with formal music education because it seems to ignore that small singer inside me. It tries to paste over it with its knowledge and rules and theories and scientification of music which it assumes to be superior. For many years I simply thought that I wasn't a proper musician, I was inferior. But now I think actually, I am a real musician, and I just disagree. 

I disagree.

And here, even where the course director is a singer, singing is somehow inferior. The instrumentalists in their small bands pass the improvised solos round like sweeties, while in choir we sing exactly what the choir master tells us. Finally solos time comes! With the exception of me, everyone gets their solo at the same time – unlike the instrumentalists - with no guidance at all about how to approach simultaneous improvisation, and the result is uncomfortably chaotic.

I find myself feeling offended that the voice is not considered an instrument in the same way other instruments are. Maybe the whole issue is just the course but these people run the jazz master's course at the London Guildhall and as far as I know that's pretty high up in The Establishment. This perspective feels systemic.

I feel sad and a little angry.

Where is the space to sing like a free bird?

Birds, come along. We can create it! :)