The string quartet, accompanied by electronics, played harmonies that sounded unearthed from an illuminated manuscript of polyphony, pulled from its shimmering gold- and blue-lined vellum pages. Their open strings rang first with clarity, then with simmering rage forged in the fire of electronic feedback. A violin occasionally broke off and into a squealing pattern, singing a melody shrouded in ancient dust, as the others swarmed and cooed beneath. It was dark onstage and in sound, like a gothic cathedral with the lights shut off, stained glass windows filtering the brightness of the light. And it was loud. Loud as a feeling.
They were playing Lea Bertucci’s Vapours on a Saturday evening at Public Records, after two solo sets by Bertucci and Charmaine Lee. It was a somewhat surprising moment: As I listened, I couldn’t help but wonder about the possibilities of noise. There are so many. But the string quartet remains one of the more unexpected vehicles, a well-oiled classical machine deconstructed and then transformed. Though it might have seemed unexpected at first, that is the point of noise: to upend. And in the upheaval lies a kernel of truth to pocket and take home.
The two shows I attended last weekend offered so many different takes on that idea. After Public Records on Saturday, I saw violinist Samara Lubelski, guitarist Bill Nace, and bagpipe player David Watson open for Wolf Eyes at Union Pool on Sunday. Some of the weekend’s sets felt more gentle, focused on minute details layered inside of massive volume, others bit hard and spit out whatever it was they tasted even harder. All asked me to approach with openness to the mass and let it see where it takes me next.
The heavy drones hit deepest, as they often do. Lubelski, Nace, and Watson bellowed from the first hit all the way to the end. Their pummeling drone felt unmoored from time; Nace and Lubelski’s bows fit together like puzzle pieces so that it never paused. Watson’s bagpipes sung above them, soaring through jagged patterns and chords alike. It was hard-driving music, the kind you can feel in your bones. As they played, the tones rumbled from my feet to my skull and onto the walls and the ceiling in what felt like total immersion.
The other sets were good, too, though I will say I was partial to Vapours and Lubelski / Nace / Watson as a matter of personal taste. During Bertucci’s solo set, slow bass vibrations thundered from the speakers, just soft enough that they could be felt even more than heard, setting an eerie tone. Her chopped up, mutated vocals occasionally passed through them, as did the screech of static. Lee’s set went elsewhere, beginning with chaos made from her body mics and ricocheting vocal techniques. It gradually unfolded into even more chaos, layering her delicate inhales and exhales into swirls of feedback. Then there was Wolf Eyes, who decades on are still getting half the crowd to walk out of the room before the night’s end. I don’t love the new material, but there’s nothing like the magnitude of John Olson’s clarinet ripping and shredding and slicing through the speakers and beyond.
When I walked home for the last time before the workweek, I found myself thinking about how each set began and ended. From nothing, into something, and back again. Noise is conjured, cultivated, and then dissolved as quickly as it began. The ritual of listening is always just the start — catharsis runs a red light, speeding past time.