Gillian Grassie – Singer Songwriter Harpist

Experimental Music at Mme Claude, Berlin

// October 14th, 2009 // Music, Travel

Last Monday I headed out to Kreuzberg to check out the experimental music night at Madame Claude – a small, quirky bar and music venue off of Skalitzer Strasse. When I got to the club, I paid a nominal, three euro entrance fee, got my hand stamped and walked down the stairs into a room that had been decorated so that everything was topsy-turvy, with all sorts of objects stuck to the ceiling and walls to give the appearance that you were in some sort of Alice in Wonderland World where everything was upside down. A row of pots and pans hung upright on the wall behind the bar, along with a backwards clock. Elsewhere in the room there were all sorts of things stuck to the ceiling (bolts? Super-dooper glue?), among them a pair of white high-top sneakers, a coffee table set up with chairs, and a David Bowie record.

I bought a delicious bottled beer at the bar (for under 2 Euros – beat that, Paris!) and followed little black signs with “Live Musik” and arrows printed in red type through the lounge/bar area to a tiny, cobblestoned, blackbox basement of a room where a dark-haired, serious woman sat at a table, lit by a single old-fashioned lamp. She was fiddling with two Macs (a laptop and a desktop), a keyboard, and a few other pieces of equipment, making soundscapes of pulsations and fuzz – like deep space radio static, or a pack of hornets at the end of the world. I kept waiting for her to add in other sound elements, but she did so very rarely; a snip-it of a French woman’s voice announcing at the train station, then nothing for at least ten minutes, then an Asian flute, some chanting.

I’d been exposed to music like this before, during an electro-acoustic composition workshop at the Edinburgh International Harp Festival back in 2001, but the notion of it as a live performance art was new to me. I kept looking around at the other audience members to try and find some cues for how to go about appreciating this sort of performance. Some seemed as baffled as me, our eyes catching across the room. They looked down quickly with embarrassment while others flashed tentative smiles, hoping for someone else to confirm their assessment that “this is really weird.” The wandering eye contact acted as a catalyst for a mass exodus of sorts from the room – people left in groups of two over five minutes.

Listen to \"Bleu\" by Emmanuelle Gibello

But others sat on the floor with their heads between their knees, reverent, or perhaps seasick. This is how I felt – the latter – as though the sound waves reverberating against the fluid in my eardrum were enough to give me motion sickness. Maybe it was. Still, this was not violent sound in the way of some music. I watched one young man in a checkered flannel shirt fold his coat on an overturned wastebasket – a recently vacated seat – and lay his head down on his arms. Another guy in a bright green sweatshirt under a sports coat leaned back in his chair with his head against the wall and seemed to fall asleep. One young man left the room quickly, as though he too was overwhelmed and seasick. In his haste, he knocked my foot quite hard from where it rested, crossed over my knee. He didn’t pause to notice the sudden contact. Others filtered in and took his space.

I remembered the time a man passed out at the Academy of Music in Philadelphia. From the balcony, I saw him slump in his suit in the center of the fifth row during an aching, slow movement (I wish very much I could remember the piece). The woman beside him called his name a few times, each repetition growing in volume and panic, until she cried out for somebody to please, call a doctor! The pomp and circumstance of the classical music world was, however, so ingrained in tradition that neither the orchestra nor the audience was quite sure what to do. The notion of interrupting a performance of the Philadelphia Orchestra was such a taboo that it actually took a long minute for the musicians to stop playing and the audience to start moving to help this man and his frantic date. After the man had been carried out on a stretcher, the conductor seemed stumped as to whether he ought to re-start the movement, skip it, or try to pick up where they’d left off in the score.

In a strange way, sitting on the grimy floor in the basement of Mme Claude’s felt a bit like going to the orchestra. There was a familiar anxiety among much of audience, an earnest desire to do the right thing but not certain what that might entail. The Classical music world can feel rigid to audiences because of its long-steeped tradition, but this experimental music is tense for the opposite reason: it’s so new, with so few rules, that all the freedom can create feelings of awkwardness too. Do we clap between “movements”? Can we leave in the middle of the “set”? Can we enter? Do we have to watch this woman fiddle with her knobs, or can the performance become more of a physical experience? Are we supposed to feel seasick? We all look to each other for indications of appropriate aural consumption behavior, wary like the person unwrapping a cough drop in a concert hall, the miniscule movements of crinkling paper deafening.