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It's well past Hallowe'en, but tonight's entertainment selection may
suggest otherwise. Arguably the two most resonant and recognisable
icons of Gothic horror are being resurrected in the Queen
Elizabeth Hall for the purposes of bringing the 2010 London Jazz
Festival to a conclusion, and at first glance the two genres appear to
be an odd fit. In what way can the exultory improvisation and soulful,
smooth 'authenticity' of jazz combine with the fogbound wastelands
and wide-eyed rictus grins of horror?
To ask such a question
patronises both genres and reveals more about the sceptical listener's
prejudices than it does about the inherent natures of jazz or the
horror film. Wasn't Miles Davis exploring and expressing
'horror' on On The Corner? Isn't 'soul' the very theme that
motivates the most chilling Gothic tale?
Gary Lucas, guitar improviser extraordinaire and erstwhile
collaborator of Captain Beefheart, Mary Margaret O'Hara,
Jeff Buckley and many, many others takes the stage in a
battered Fedora and jeans and regales the crowd with the strange tale
of how he came upon the Spanish-language version of Tod Browning's
Dracula. In an era when studios made foreign language versions of
their films on the same sets, with the same costumes, but at night
with different casts and crews, George Melford's Latin version is now
often thought of as superior to the Browning/Lugosi version: less
stilted, more passionate, eerier, and generally more innovative and
exciting to watch.
With this in mind, the air fizzes with electricity
as Lucas' shimmering, waterfall guitar plucks out the chords of
Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake (Dracula's theme music) as the hapless
Renfield's coach rattles its way over a Carpathian mountain pass.
Lucas darts from motif to motif and texture to texture as the action
progresses: eerie, luminous sustained chords to suggest the
mesmerising effect the Count has on his spellbound victims, tense,
sardonic, almost-folk melodies to underpin Renfield's mounting
apprehension, and stuttering, staccato distortion to announce the
presence of Dracula's cohort of undead beauties.
Lucas has done this sort of thing before, with the silent horror
classic The Golem. What makes this different is that this film does
have a soundtrack and the lustily-enunciated dialogue, hysterical
laughter and blood-curdling screams from the film vie for attention
with the live music. This sometimes works against the concept, since
Lucas tries to paint music into every corner and nook of the film's
running time (much as a silent-movie pianist or pit-orchestra might
do), only occasionally slackening the pace when the film's own
atmosphere is overpowering enough, or the inflections of the dialogue
need to be heard.
Occasionally the constant stream of melodies and
effects works wonders, as when he has his guitar echo Eva's swooning
screams as she is possessed: other times, however, the constant burble
of melody can serve as a distraction from the hypnotically energetic
performances on screen (the incredible Pablo Alvarez Rubio in
particular manages the not inconsiderable feat of making Dwight Frye's
frenzied take on Renfield look subdued). But for the most part, the
iridescent sound-world that Lucas conjures complements the cobwebbed
archways, craggy mountains and storm-lashed sail-ships on screen
perfectly. If only someone could release a new DVD of the film with an
optional Lucas soundtrack...
Experimental film-maker Bill Morrison is about as far
from the overheated passions of Spanish Gothic horror as one could
find, more interested in the way the physical texture of found footage
can convey meaning. His film Spark Of Being is ostensibly a retelling
of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, but a retelling where found footage
with no direct connection to the source is painstakingly constructed
to form a narrative (of sorts). Soundtracked this time by trumpeter
Dave Douglas and his impressiveKeystone quintet, the
film is divided into chapters whose titles suggest the action of
Shelley's novel, while the film itself conveys fragments of similar
but unrelated action, as though someone is remembering the novel in a
dream.
After a mournful, wryly doom-laden instrumental prologue, the
film begins with The Captain's Tale: grainy, monochrome footage of
massive ships breaking through Arctic ice floes, a dog team
approaching from the white distance, while Douglas' muted horn freezes
the very air itself. Haunting images of (nuclear?) blasted landscapes
and the trappings and minutiae of scientific research are augmented
by Gene Lake's rolling, splashing percussion, while Adam Benjamin
turns his Fender Rhodes into a staccato Morse Code generator, or takes
off on a flight of improvised fantasy, little rivulets of melody
running down the screen here and there as white zigzags of
electricity arc across it from top to bottom.
Douglas keeps a steady hand on the tiller, as Morrison's film
erupts into what could be described as visual acne, burn holes and
decaying celluloid melting and oozing across and obliterating the
images like an attacking virus. It's an extraordinary visual analogue
for how Frankenstein's creature is beginning to experience his
terrifying new world of sights and sensations. Within and between
this flood of disturbing visuals and hectic music are extraordinary
moments of pastoral beauty and calm.
A naked couple running in slow
motion into each other's arms as Geoff Countryman generates a blissful
wash of electronic tone that would sit easily on a Boards Of
Canada a record. The Beauty Of Nature is signified by a tolling
bell and Marcus Strickland's sax emerging quietly, as though heard
from a long way off. The Doctor's Wedding is a sardonic, discordant
parody of Bavarian wedding music as dresses pirouette endlessly,
hypnotically on screen and moustachioed men in lederhosen slap, kick
and caper, while the music suggest it is all a mechanistic, joyless
ritual.
After the film and the music have brought us full circle, to that
Arctic tundra and that mysterious dog team, Douglas regales us with a
lengthy trumpet workout which soon hits an irresistible groove when
the rest of Keystone jump in. Strickland, Benjamin and bassist Brad
Jones all shine here, as Lake underpins the whole thing with a
restless, ever-shifting grassland of percussion. A warm, invigorating
coda to a chilly evening of unique pleasures, terrors and wonders.
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