The Quiche and Scone Quarterly
Psychlotron*
Sat. October 5th, 2013
In Midtown’s West Side, where
underground neighborhood events used to be kind of cool, an enclave of aspiring
artists and musicians hold onto tradition. An artistic tradition started in
late 1950’s (and throughout the 60’s and ‘70’s) that abhors tradition. At least
that is what the Psychlotron* event is supposed to be. Despite the obvious
traditional references to memes and aesthetic roads well traveled, the content
of this variety show is often novel. The
South Hell’s Kitchen location is where we had seen the rise and fall of many
experimental performance venues, including the Zipper Theater.
Whether conceptually heavy or
light, the performances range while crossing through different genres and
cultural boundaries. Or whether the
performances hit that point of relevance in contemporary art dialogue, musical
mastery or sublime theatricality is a matter of informed opinion. What is good
music, good art, good poetry, good (fill in discipline) versus what is
irrelevant or amateur? In this era of declarative art, it is good if I say it
is!
The spirit of the Psychlotron* event
seems to attract talent that can soar in bohemian settings. Four headline acts showered us with stimuli
so that we all had our fill. Those who still wanted more were fed with the
shorter acts that followed during the open session of the Psychlotron*.
The first headliner of the night
greeted the music-less gathering with a subtle welcoming. Breaking through the
chatter, David Beardsley perfectly meshed vibrations of the air, weaving them
through the visual art into minimal, tonal drones. His guitar was tuned in a just
intonation manner. His guitar’s fret board design was rare as well. It was
modified so as not to adhere to the western octave. Both a focal point and
ambient, his layered changes reverberated through the space, captivating
listeners. Some who were attentive at
one moment moved around to experience Beardsley’s compositions in an ambient way
at other times during the show. Of course there were those listeners focused on
the transcendental nature of the sounds, his entire set. Conversely, other audience members listened to
Beardsley out on the balcony, taking in the night. His permeable music allowed
for that range of perception. Akin to the Brian Eno installation in New York in
early Spring, people lounged, taking from it however much they brought to the
listening experience. Meditative drone
music has evolved but of course it also has a known tradition in the New York
avant garde via pioneers like Lamont Young and Terry Riley since Fluxus. Beardsly recycles and adds a welcoming
dimension to this often heady and chakra-dominating genre.
Recycling is a way of life for
contemporary humans. The recycling theme of environmental art was on display on
the main walls of this Psychlotron*. Chin Chih Yang was one of the chosen
headline performers. His sculptural wall hangings were of recycled aluminum
cans. A giant square of metallic fabric with various colors schemes. The
twilight coruscated off the surface before the theater lights lit them evenly
in their warm glow. Spending years collecting, cutting into strips and
arranging these symbols of literal mass consumption, Chin Chi has turned space
and time into a economic mirror. How we feed ourselves in such great quantity
is an underlying conceptual tone beneath the formal techniques he employs. And
in each aluminum tapestry Yang uses various colored strips like a well-trained
painter. Just to remind us that it is
sculpture, a small metallic form curls, as if attached as an afterthought, in
the middle of each woven piece. They are abstracted bows or miniature
futuristic cityscapes, or who knows what. The frayed edges line each side of
the squares. These unhemmed strips flair out like loose curls on a fabric
swatch. They invite closer examination yet threaten to cut us if we get too
close.
Chin Chih’s
formal inquiries are not limited to his art objects. His performance equally
challenged expectations of the medium.
The body art mixed with environmental activist art seems to be a genre
pre destined to go to extremes. He offered the audience objects to extend and
alter the overall shape of his body.
Various objects, presented to the crowd in a series of black boxes
included colored clay, tape, LED lights, colored tip pins, live bags of
goldfish, and croissants to name a few.
By the end of the interactive piece, the crowd had taken delight
adhering random things to his bare body (he wore shorts). The physical
augmentation of his flesh, especially with the moldable clay, transformed his
physique into something both beautiful and grotesque. The live fish in a bag,
swimming on his arm was pure surrealism. I hope he recycles those props for another
piece.
The dapper presence
of a poet took the stage next. The dark flowing curls that frame Bonafide
Rojas’ face was the natural finish to his Fall ensemble. On a podium he laid
down a small metal briefcase, laden with bumper stickers. From it he procured
some notes, poems and charismatic ether.
That ether spread across the room as if ignited by his breath. The incendiary
poems burned the ears of all present. Some contained stories of the children he
taught in New York schools. Tales of
young students’ perfect creative inspiration and inclination toward love and
literature. Poems that showed where, what and with whom he was surrounded with.
A forceful flow pushed the rhythmic aspects of the stanzas, making it seem more
accessible. Either if you learned rhymes on the street or in a university,
Bonafide brings a truth that is lyrical.
A literary style that is fitted reflection of Latin music, hip-hop,
melted in a bowl of rock and roll New York.
Though Rojas could take his performances to a bombastic raw level, he
practiced restraint with impressive effects. His words fit like a good jacket
as the evening temperature chilled a bit. The energy level in the room lifted
with each piece, consequently lifting him to the limits of the loft’s ceiling. He
stature grew larger with each syllable. Building to an understated crescendo,
he bowed out to a rowdy applause.
Almost a
half hour passed to digest and mingle. A necessary step to process the
experimental and meaningful ideas put forth with each performance.
A clamor toward the “stage” area
announced the arrival of Matthew Silver’s performance. A red, push-cart wagon,
loaded with odd items came pushing out by a bearded man dressed as a number 2
Pencil. A cardboard sign reading “Love Porthol” added to the street performance
aesthetic. Different sized cymbals hit the floor with a bang. A child’s
one-person tent hit the floor next to a red, folding, plastic sawhorse. The
crowd interaction was fluid from the beginning. Silver directly engages others
as a veteran who has met the masses on the street for years. His protracted
pauses between statements in a metering reminiscent of Andy Kaufman as a
deranged homeless schitzo relays a sense of assuredness in his proclamations.
The number two pencil outfit was shed in the tent to reveal a beak nosed, a
bristling man-fairy in a blue leotard. He induced crowd clapping for love and
other noble themes. The red saw horse came out for a lesson- on nothing.
Literally pointing to the emptiness of the spaces between the bars that makes a
hinged saw horse made the prop perfect. With a certain slapstick physicality
Silver wrestled with the sculpture of nothingness. Aplomb and with a gusto
reserved for only the most devout physical comedic routines, Mathew launched
himself through the nothing. In the collapsed ruin he achieved his goal.
Eschewing the internet’s attempts to turn us into computers he offered an
alternative. The Love Portal was opened up in the loft space. I realized his prompt to rub a croissant on
our heads made his connection with the audience absolute. He was the leader of a imaginary cult for the
25 minutes he performed. The king of the stage with his sunflower scepter, he
led us nowhere. But within the nothing, was found something great. Love.
The love was perpetuated by
performances by Johnny Azari and Kira Kupfersberger. Both are singer
songwriters and both pleasing to look at.
But the former being more of an afro-sporting storyteller with cascading
blues guitar accents. Just to contrast the two, Johnny is a whisky drinking
blues nomad while Kira being more of a whimsical Torre Amos type of singer.
Both performers cut their songs with the dark edge of love lost.
The other
paintings by Samten Dakpa and John Bonafede, one of the event’s hosts, played
loudly for those who came early to see their works brightly lit or quietly when
they were dimmed in service of the performances.
*event name taken from the field of psychology that Timothy
Leary propagated out of Harvard in the early 1960’s.
by Finius Stravatis
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