Thoughts for Company

This weekend, I had the privilege of participating in the Phil Minton Feral Choir workshop, generously put on by Vancouver New Music.

A few months ago, a friend of mine sent me an email about the workshop.  The chance to work with a world-renowned vocalist and innovator in the field?  I wasted no time in signing up.

I trusted the judgement of my friend and the supposed recognition of the presenter, and didn’t bother exploring the “feral choir” concept any further.  The workshop organizer let me in without any screening (hey, I’d consider myself a vocalist so why wouldn’t they?), but for some reason I felt like I was committing highway robbery so I never looked back… until the week before the workshop, when I made more concrete plans for the weekend.

Do you know what “feral” means?

I didn’t either.  Turns out Webster’s dictionary defines “feral” as (ha!) “of, relating to, or suggestive of a wild beast“.  Oookay… this should be interesting!

I must admit, upon learning more about Minton’s experimental techniques and hearing the performances of previous workshops, I was hesitant.  After all, this is what I saw, heard, experienced on YouTube:

Uh oh.

I watched more and more videos, fascinated by the inhibitions of these adults, whose mental state could be considered questionable.  And I was about to join them.  I had so many questions… What am I, a dog?  (I’m not exactly accustomed to barking on command, unless you count workplace and social butt kissing as a related form.)  Who’s that making burping noises?  And how were they so free and comfortable in completely humiliating themselves on stage?

But I needed to challenge myself.  To push the boundaries of my own self-awareness.  To see what primal sounds I could create.

The workshop started off with Minton laughing.

He just stood there, in front of the group of about 50 of us (though estimating crowds is not my forte; the Kia vehicle on the other hand…), in semicircles two rows deep, laughing.  Pacing across the front of the room.

And so, like monkeys, we followed.  Whether out of confusion or obedience or mere contagion, we followed.  And it seemed to go on for a good five minutes.

Let me tell you, all those studies claiming how healthy laughter is - maybe there’s really something to them, because I felt alive.

I was amazed by how Minton would orchestrate his unconventional choir of beasts, some of whom were impressively creative with their improvised sounds.  He waved his arms like a maniac, eliciting the most outrageous but surprisingly cohesive cacophony of sounds - beginning low and soft, then moving higher and louder - and pointed randomly at singers who were then invited to make short bursts of noise.

Nothing was off limits.

I was probably one of the more tame of the bunch.  The group was mixed, with professionals and amateurs, young and old, guarded and free-spirited.  It was hard to feel “out of place” when I couldn’t really tell what this “place” was.  I belonged in this mishmash just as much as I didn’t.  And over the duration of that session, I felt myself letting go progressively more and more, ever so slowly, until I didn’t really care what the $%^& anyone else in the room thought of me.

What I’ve learned from the workshop, as a self-described “vocalist”, is that I have been confining myself to replicating the sounds and music that surround me.  Popular music is pleasing because we don’t know any better.  Most of what we hear today is the same old thing, over and over again, because we are too afraid to try something different.

I am too afraid.

Have been too afraid, or so I’d like to think.

Now is the time to at least try to mix it up a little.  Now is the time to force open those narrow boundaries in which I live, creatively.

Actually, now is the time to make my way over to the last part of the workshop and public performance, so you can experience just what I’m talking about.

Bark if you’re with me - arf!