Continued from An Interview With Bill Heine
THE ONLY BILL HEINE TAPE I OWN
It isn't quite clear how this recording was developed, but probably no more than the streak between two old friends who can easily talk to each other now without speaking. The tape arrived wrapped in bandages of scotch-tape during one of those cold Vermont mornings thawing with the sun, immediately surprised the birds by throwing it on, soon learning the beat-to-hell copy I handled was indeed a twenty-minute duet shared between Bill Heine and Janine Pommy Vega. Two weeks before, I had attended a poetry event in Milwaukee for Lorine Niedecker that my father was reading at. Around breakfast, an anthology of Beat writers was being passed around the table of poets and friends. Janine's photo on the front cover-- chin down, rising cigarette smoke-- staring up-- "who's that? someone asked-- "...an anonymous Beat," another replied.
The story and wonder remains enclosed with the swell of this tape; an example of the craving sense that enriched the time. What mischief could arise in this recording was yet unknown, and my first instinct, as it always is, was to smell the casing: A room. Must. Old cigarettes, of which I remembered Bill telling poet Andy Clausen back in Janine's garden, he buys for dirt cheap at an Indian Reservation no one knows about except for the bus-load of tourists stopping to ask for the whereabouts of some rumored spot in the Catskills-- whistled somewhere in Bill's paintings. Our conversation shifted to the turning trees around us and jazz, sharing with me his passion for the piano and discreet recordings with a few bass players, in the back of his mind, hovering the secret of this tape somewhere.
His handwriting was messy. It seemed written in such a rush to avoid swinging typewriter bars from hitting cups, spilling whatever malt-liquids that kept writers cranked about singing about things like this, that, to any person of the mark, knows this tape is a kind of literary folklore. It begins after a series of hisses that still leak through the raw edges, leading me to believe it was shot hand-held either stuck between walls or dangling from above. Bill cuts the silence by gently rolling his piano through a snapping rag-time jowl that could be found in the salt of Randy Weston, all very recognizable that these were the hands of a drummer at pace, riding the sleeves of a painter. All the notes move in an awkward, dashing time; a breed of jelly-roll jazz and fatha dissonance in the burly clef of snapping-fingers. What had its eyes closed: the piano or Bill?-- who knew. His melodic maze played on in a ginger flow. Silent. Tapping. Momentary. Suddenly it cuts to him and Janine revving the sling up; Bill, up and down the keys, Janine reading from the concrete jungle of her poetry, which is always like traveling around the world twice on a twenty-five hour taxi ride through the streets of New York City. Her language, the hemisphere, are the rolling clouds that make and shape music, and better, desire it. In the past, I've seen her accompanied by a guitar (once with Gene Moore), which, depending on the player, ain't always the best-- instead, she longs for piano; sorta humming her lyrics; bouncing in the hearth of harmony and rap. The audio-level is pissy and squashy, which begs you to scower into it even more, and when recovering Janine's words, they swarm at you in rather deep churns. At first, you might think the verbal commotion of her and Bill were as though winding down from weeks of hot insomnia, but believe me, there are some crazy and rousing moments packed in this poetic fang. Randomly the tape will cut off and on into various sections of the song, where I wasn't sure where the ribbon had fallen, but knew it was warm...because there was a "punkish spirit" in the overdrawing of Bill and Janine. That's right-- punk. Maybe more. The communication, their history, it was the trenches of freedom and pure Go. It might not be intentional nor produced, but the spirit is holy to their verse. And during the last few seconds, their wheel simmers down, nearly exhausted, Janine laughs hysterically, Bill stops pounding. Everything, you think, had been chasing each other for twenty minutes.
--Carson Arnold - January 20th, 2004
copyright 2004 Carson Arnold
H(ear) is an online music column consisting of interviews, articles, and investigations written by Carson Arnold. As a freelance writer for various magazines and liner notes, living in the woods of Vermont with his family, Carson widely encourages one to submit their art, writing or any interesting piece of material that you would like to share. H(ear) is accepting both promos and demos for review or any other valuable music-related subjects. If you wish to make a comment or would like to receive H(ear) weekly by email please contact Carson at [email protected]
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