Jason Kao Hwang

VOICE

featuring

Thomas Buckner and Deanna Relyea

Innova 938

Lifelines 

Music by Jason Kao Hwang 

Poetry: Lester Afflick, Patricia Spears Jones and Davida Singer

Musicians: Deanna Relyea – voice, Piotr Michalowski – sopranino saxophone/bass clarinet with

EDGE: Taylor Ho Bynum – cornet/flugelhorn, Andrew Drury – drum set, Ken Filiano – string bass, Jason Kao Hwang – violin

1. nocturnal, poem by Davida Singer 7:19  

2. vertigo, poem by Davida Singer 4:05 

3. Someone, poem by Lester Afflick 6:51

4. Days of Awe, poem by Patricia Spears Jones 6:48

5. I Raise Myself, poem by Lester Afflick 8:13

Words of Our Own 

Music by Jason Kao Hwang 

Poetry: Lester Afflick, Fay Chiang, Steve Dalachinsky, Patricia Spears Jones, Yuko Otomo

Musicians: Thomas Buckner – voice, Joe McPhee – tenor saxophone/pocket trumpet,

William Parker – string bass, Sang Won Park - kayagum/ajeng/voice, Jason Kao Hwang – viola

6. Charles Gayle Trio @ Knitting Factory 7/20/92 (Vattel Cherry – bass, Marc Edwards – drums)

poem by Steve Dalachinsky 1:30

7. What You Know, poem by Patricia Spears Jones 2:40  

8. I Dream About You Baby (for C.H.), poem by Lester Afflick 4:14

9. Father, poem by Fay Chiang 3:01

10. in the wind there is a presence #2, poem by Steve Dalachinsky 3:44

11. an excerpt from a rose is a rose (for Bruce Weber), poem by Yuko Otomo 12:16

12. an excerpt from In Like Paradise/Out Like the Blues, poem by Patricia Spears Jones 3:18

13. Gypsy Prayers, poem by Lester Afflick 6:59

-—71:40—-

VOICE

Each of the poems I chose had a personal resonance. They felt like my voice speaking words of my own to express essences that I could not bring to consciousness before. I also heard music in them. All the poems have an inherent and unique flow of rhythms, textures and colors that would challenge and engage music. Aware of this dynamic, I composed sonic spaces that allowed each poem to fully resonate. These spaces created were always infused by improvisations, orchestrated for the unique voice of each musician & vocalist, and developed in direct correspondence with the poems’ evolution. Throughout each poem’s sonic architecture Deanna Relyea and Thomas Buckner were fully empowered to improvise so that the poems would truly become their words, which they chose to sing or speak. In this recording, each word is a sound and each sound is a poem. I am grateful for these indivisible vibrations that offered me lifelines to grow.

Jason Kao Hwang

There are voices that speak our thoughts, emotions and needs. They vibrate the air to deliver the contents. We speak and talk. We hear and listen. And there are other kinds of voices that are alive but mostly unheard. Some loud and intense, some soft, almost mute, all saying something that needs to be heard. Although heard by no one yet, they are definitely and clearly there. Poets gives them actual voices using their instrument: words. Poems come alive, when written, to be heard by all, including poets themselves. Every poem speaks a different story, creates a different landscape and brings in a different idea since everybody is unique.

And then, there are musicians and vocalists. They do a similar thing to what poets do. They hear unheard music, alive and well, but not yet shared with anyone. They make music to cause the unheard music to come alive using their voices and instruments, alone and collectively. The music they create gives out vibrations to the air by dispersing the actual particles of sounds in it. This way, they deliver the story, the landscape and the idea once unheard to us as a living breath.

This VOICE project is a very personal one in the most profound sense. It is a “first person” experience not just for Jason, but for everyone involved. That is why I prefer to call all the participating artists by their first names here. Jason heard his own voice that he could not express in words in the poems created by davida, Patricia, Fay, Lester, Steve and myself. When something “personal” goes deep enough to a certain degree, it reaches a tipping point where the “personal” changes itself into the “universal”. He heard the voice and the music in these poems. So, he composed a sonic space inspired by his personal experience and invited his musician friends, vocalists, Deanna and Tom, instrumentalists, Joe, William, Sang, Piotr, Taylor, Andrew and Ken to share his experience. And this was the last recording his EDGE quartet (Jason, Taylor, Andrew & Ken) did before going on hiatus. How amazingly beautiful it is to see our personal voices once unheard being shared as universal voices with others in such an organic and empathetic way despite different backgrounds and personal histories!

VOICE has its own unique history. First created and premiered as “Words of Our Own” for Larry Ochs’s Words and Music series at the Stone NYC in March 2010, it was later performed again at A Gathering of Tribes in April 2010 and for the Interpretations sereis at Roulette in January 2012. “Lifelines” came into life soon after inspired by the Roulette performance. Commissioned by Edgefest, it premiered there in November 2012 and again was performed at the Stone, curated by Min Xiao-Fen, in December that same year. “Words of Our Own” was recorded in 2012 and “Lifelines” in 2014. VOICE is the resulting creative development of these projects.

VOICE is also a community project. It grew out of the shared garden called New York City. Like a tree or a wild flower, it grew out of our commitments to our creative lives. As for the poets and musicians involved here, we’ve all known each other one way or the other over the years through joys, struggles and a shared spirit to make the world a better place. Some of us met at various creative spaces such as Basement Workshop and A Gathering of Tribes, crossing the borders of genres and cultural differences. We all are extremely happy to have our beloved friend, Lester Afflick, who passed away much too young, as an integral part of this project. The poems included here are from his book of poetry: “I Dream about You Baby” edited by Marci Goodman and published by Steve Cannon’s Fly By Night Press posthumously with the support of his close friends.

Now, the voices, once unheard and impossible to reach, are here with us, welcoming us all to listen to them with open arms. Let us listen to them from every corner of our streets, memories and dreams. Here VOICE speaks to us in the most humble, personal and genuine timbres and tones, as we walk together or alone in this landscape called LIFE.

Yuko Otomo

CREDITS

Music by Jason Kao Hwang © p Flying Panda Music (BMI), 2015

Words of Our Own was created for Larry Ochs’s Words and Music series at the Stone in New York City, where it premiered on March 28, 2010.

Lifelines was commissioned by Kerrytown Concert House/Ann Arbor for Edgefest where it premiered on November 1, 2012.

Words of Our Own was recorded on January 14, 2012 and Lifelines on January 16, 2014, at Kaleidoscope Sound in Union City, NJ.

Recording Engineer for Words of Our Own: Sal Mormando

Recording Engineer for Lifelines: Kyle Cassel

Mixing Engineer: Jason Kao Hwang

Mastering Engineer: Paul Zinman, SoundByte Productions, Inc.

Innova is supported by an endowment from the McKnight Foundation

Philip Blackburn: director, design

Chris Campbell: operations manager

Steve McPherson: publicity

www.innova.mu

Special thanks: Gennevieve Lam, Marci Goodman, Larry Ochs, Deanna Relyea and Edgefest, Jim Staley and Roulette, Steve Cannon, Min Xiao-Fen, and A Gathering of Tribes.

nocturnal

by Davida Singer

in sleep 

ravens with metallic sheen

flutter near her eyelids

she’s read 

they have more calls/

adaptability than any animal 

legendary 

controllers of weather

prophets of calamity 

but eskimos believed

ravens created light

flinging mica chips 

into the sky

in dreams she flies

relentless as ravens

sleuth like 

the scent of night

the sword edge glint of moon

in her hair 

five houses from the beach

the earth cants cold

she hovers for a close-up

barely upright tipsy

chasing after shadows

so now she asks

what healing sonant

what measured notes

rite of augury 

set of numbers 

deck of cards 

what book of runes

what kabbalistic sign

what incense burned

what candle lit

what planetary purl

she flies in dreams

trailing forecasts

ciphering time

what stroke what speed

what mantra/meditation

air or ocean filled 

what overflow

what holy fissure/destination

mode of transportation 

then what port 

what port of call

can reshape/harbor destiny

before all sleek horizons

sink and fail

vertigo

by Davida Singer

in a flashback 

she’s high 

higher than sequoias

ephemeral 

that raven thing again

she passes glaciers

global scan 

or divination 

willing them to cleave 

in the faltering ‘scape 

she ducks free fall 

a spread of clouds 

like cards 

all read september 9th/

10th in spades 

hoist before the plunge

toes taut pre dive 

(pre birth pre bomb)

lynching holocaust 

fever on the run 

earth about to waffle 

at the brink 

cosmic rift 

kaleidoscopic 

last give of springboard

blink before the rifle pull

pinch of a grenade

the telepathic ripple

the uneasy step

before judgment

the startling instant

of choice

SOMEONE

by Lester Afflick

Someone, 

rising up, 

giving off smoke,

blatant fire, 

showing us his doom,

showing off – 

a meaningless gyp, 

a pox on him, 

burn down his house,

if there is any, 

burn it down

someone, 

rising up, 

cursing, 

tertiary articulations,

too much tongue,

cut out his tongue,

his tongue must be

cut out

someone,

somewhere else,

leaning on allusion,

a bevy of beasts

being led on, 

& how they continue,

these clods

someone, 

sifting through shivers,

cleaning his plate, 

he will not come to a good end,

no matter what they say, 

he will not come to a good end

someone, 

not particularly anyone,

drowsy, duped, 

leers back at himself,

sees what he hates,

& can’t go on –

& that’s always a story

someone, 

rather ordinary this someone,

lips made of stone, 

slabs of it, 

drones his way 

through the windy evening,

wincing, 

winding down, 

more! 

he semaphores 

more! 

& he’ll get it, 

if they let him 

he’ll get it

someone, 

like any of those 

who worship darkness,

following the woe

kneels inside 

every empty temple 

as he goes,

encountering 

no hymn on the road–

gives himself back 

to the black

someone, 

in a cage somewhere 

not knowing anyone else

believes 

he can plainly see 

the swank,

deep-&-getting-deeper depths,

where dutiful angels spar 

over nebulous carrion- 

fever food- 

then the night 

& the night, 

for a long time

the night 

& then, someone...

Days of Awe

by Patricia Spears Jones

I feel as if my life were held together by wishful thinking 

and krazy glue. Somehow it works. 

Somehow all our lives work. 

Full moons or Fridays the 13th, mysterious are the ways of the spirit.

Or the ways we dream ourselves awake.

Each morning a cloudless day revels in the impossible, 

the dispensation of shadows. It is a ruse. God gives 

and God thinks things over. And while the pondering abides,

each of us has time to act one way or the other. 

Give, get. Build, destroy. Laugh and laugh some more.

Splendor in the heavens, ashes on earth. 

Love conjured, love lost. 

Out of the corner of my myopic right eye, I spy 

a white van curving towards me, Sebastian at the wheel.

Face unscarred, but that’s not the real story. 

Out of the Bronx, into the modest comforts of Brooklyn,

he smiles the smile of a man redeemed in blood.

We do not stand still. The last of the roses open petulantly,

daring summer to end. Oh days of uncommon beauty,

when the knotted heart unties itself. As trees old and young

starve their leaves into gold, flame, rust.  

- For Cynthia Kraman

I RAISE MYSELF

by Lester Afflick

From tides behind time

from planet heart 

from dark blood-leaf 

I raise myself

from the lice-cell 

from deep inside the blood-curlicues

from the great glaciers of nothing 

I raise myself

from stones that seep and seep

from those places I knelt at 

from the memories I like to forget

I raise myself

from fevered psalms 

from the places where light rust

from the ash ark 

I raise myself

from the heat of the pits 

from the pure heat 

from what cauls and what cringes

I raise myself

from campaniles 

from glass faces of God

from the leeching din 

I raise myself

from the misguided compasses I use

from cracked empty kilns

from deep daylight thirst

I raise myself

from still plain without border

from rope of long arms 

from tongues still tongues 

I raise myself

from breath-ridges with hymn

from plain windows of hurt

from dust useless dust 

I raise myself

from what I refuse as what I own 

from winds that chisel this stone that this heart is 

from sweet salves I cannot name 

I raise myself

from these little temples my eyes 

from what I thought was too silent and it was 

from mountains that break hands 

I raise myself

from bone harps

from blood harps

from icy icy music

I raise myself

from vast concrete 

from out of this freed land

from this urn that is this body

I raise myself

I raise myself by myself

I am risen

Charles Gayle Trio @ The Knitting Factory 7/20/92

(Vattel Cherry – bass, Marc Edwards – drums)

by Steve Dalachinsky

deaf dumb blind cripple steeple

want to go scrape the secret off the wall

this is not now & forever

this is dis lo-ca-tion

this trial is no less a trial of peers

the walls sing with torture

the halls ring with faces of hate

we came here yesterday

& plan to stay for as long as

there is

don’t talk too softly of the coming

don’t expect to be lead toward the door

deaf dumb cripple blind

drawn & shade

pulled down so low

the window no longer there

this walk is a false perspective

an oversized step in a small landscape

there is nothing to blow out

except the light

What You Know

by Patricia Spears Jones

It is not the memory I can conjure

daily destruction, daily dope,

Saigon in spring. In summer, heat too much.

What you give are your poems

each a piece of the stone

that was your heart

I have no way of finding

that point of pain,

crystalline as methedrine,

steady as a tropical rain.

There are prayers, say some, strong enough

to shake blood from your hands

death from your eyes

You do what you can and, sometimes,

you make music

as volcanic as a boy’s laughing fit.

Your walk is the walk of a man in need of gravity,

you smile. And back of your talk is the blues.

ancient, bold. Hellhounds on your tail?

Each one snarls a signature note from the man in Mississippi

who knew what you know, who could see straight

through the thick tobacco smoke, the club’s

hard red-light glow,

to the lit-up forehead of a woman waiting to love

I DREAM ABOUT YOU BABY

(for C.H.)

by Lester Afflick

On that rocky coast

where

you were

we were

the house was stone

while the wind wild

and terrifyingly demented

hounded

the goats

quibbled like goats

high

on the mountain

and the one fig tree

grew cold

no sustenance there

and the sea said

see the sea

all

the

time

see the sea

and even the sea

no mantra

for what ailed me

kneaded itself

feeding itself

so I heeded myself

thinking I was talking about tone

thinking I was talking about quiet

and all the time

all that kept me alive

was you

FATHER

by Fay Chiang

his long tapered fingers

guide my young hand curved around

bamboo brush pen

to form my name in Chinese:

family name: chiang: from northern china, we came

south on tamed wild horses and

became farmers

middle name: wei: shared by you and your sisters,

wisdom?

and your own ping: for peace or plains of green field

bits of characters:

grass, heart, three dots of water, woods, home

write again and again, your name,

that you may never forget it

september 1978

in the wind there is a presence #2

by Steve Dalachinsky

in the wind there is a presence

an unseen force that binds

us to the earth

an unheard force

that binds us to the trees

a forced presence

that binds us to the clouds

in the mouth there is an understanding of tongues

a hand-me down scene

a pastoral entangling

in the breath there is the wind that binds us

to the sky

that brings us toward the storm

& wraps us in the eye

that levels us to the ground

& makes us even &

beholden

& humble & held

in its

presence

an excerpt from

a rose is a rose (for Bruce Weber)

by Yuko Otomo

walking home

carefully

holding a tiny red rose

the size of a button

between the thumb & index finger

I thought of smell,

not fragrance

the smell of skin, thighs, hair, armpits

the smell of unkempt bed, rotten fruit, rotten meat

the familiar smell of childhood memories

conjured up to conquer my senses

but I could not tell

whether it was the smell of the sea

or the hill

so I kept walking

a woman loses herself

between the pages she is reading

for a second

a rose lay alone on the floor

a few feet away from her

she wanders around

with no purpose or aim

in a pool of her own melancholy

in the afternoon room

she is very alone

a poet died

stung by a rose thorn

he watched blood flow from flesh

& thought it was charming

he observed the slow process

as if it were some poisonous nostalgia

he was familiar with

when the word “River” visited his mind

he all of a sudden

felt sleepy

so he laid himself down quietly

giving up his will & conscience

totally

a rose bud

does not talk

of silence

it breathes it

a vase is mute & obedient

in it’s own shadow

holding a rose’s breath

petals on petals

colors within colors

I live by the rose bushes in my mind -

an approaching storm

can only illuminate their profiled beauty

& I mirror my own profile on it

secretly

overflowing

overfloating

overpowering

virtue and vice

dreaming of rose-scented myths and legends

I eat a loaf of bread

sweetened with rose jam

a rose is a rose is a rose

when we bury ourselves

in roses

in a wheel barrow

we become a song cycle in a rondo

a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose

pink crimson, yellow, white & red

alone or in a bundle

cut or rooted

a rose is a rose is

always an abundance of luminosity

suggested

Excerpt from

In Like Paradise/ Out Like the Blues

by Patricia Spears Jones

Stars are like flowers in the desert.

They shiver fresh in the aeon knowing

that they will become memory, hunger.

the core of dreams.

It is up to me, then, to bring back their beauty:

taut, seamless before the eyes of men and women

To amplify the vitality of their illumination

(righteous shimmer above melancholy clouds)

To remind humanity that without them

night would never come

The death of a star like the death of a flower

is awesome, ugly, a relentless warning.

Artists make whole somehow the ways

in which dreams persist

Each of us turns to the hunger of stars

and wipes the crumbs from our mouths.

On canvas, they laugh like children.

In essence, they scream like children. And struggle

like children to eat, grow, copulate, then flash out.

A name perhaps. A body gone.

GYPSY PRAYERS

by Lester Afflick

Lantern Lord guide

this last light

that goes south

Speak to me not only from far

and I will kneel until

my skin has learnt

its own language from

its own memory

Love me O Lord

as you love my soul

and I shall be good for something