Friday, October 12, 2007

in love with a dead boy

*Published in Plan B magazine, July 2007

Kindertotenlieder is a play that shares its name with a song cycle by Gustave Mahler, music for voice and orchestra that attempts to channel the emotions that are stirred following the death of a child. The cycle's five movements have titles like 'In This Weather, In This Windy Storm' and 'Now The Sun Will Rise As Brightly', an emphasis on the role of awe in untamed nature that is also to be found in the lyrical imagery of the black metal groups that first emerged from Norway in the early Nineties. Take this example from the song 'The Majesty of the Night Sky' by Emperor: "Like the tide, shadows flow towards the shore of light/The night comes whirling like a maelstrom..."

The play, directed by Giselle Vienne with Dennis Cooper credited for text and dramaturgy, bleeds black metal culture to a point that takes it far beyond notions of 'kvlt' (the term used to describe an adherence to aspects of said culture). Onstage, a group of static figures stand, or are seated, mostly with their backs to their audience, upon a thick carpet of pure white snow. Dwelling in the far corner are Stephen O'Malley and Peter 'Pita' Rehberg, supplying a live soundtrack; working acoustically as the snow does optically- an opaque coating, with details only emerging through deep concentration of the senses.
Together with a silent woman vocalist wrapped in tight black clothing and a bullet belt, they provide a background concert for the characters, uniformly clad in black hoodies that name bands such as Burzum and Von. (O'Malley chose these from his personal collection, specifically for their 'kvlt' value.)

Dennis Cooper has used extreme music and featured teenage metal fans as characters in his novels before. Slayer lyrics are frequently quoted in Try, while Period features a group called The Omen, who sacrifice their fans to Satan. It is Cooper's voice that the performers of Kindertotenlieder mime along to at points, where the story of a teenager murdering his best friend is given an occassional pale lucidity by sparse, tight dialogue.

The iconography of death among heavy metal teens is crucial, although not exclusive, to an understanding of the early black metal period. The much publicised deaths by murder or suicide in the Norwegian scene provide a sensationalist entry point for those in search of darker matter to feast on, tired of pretenders like Marilyn Manson who promise much but deliver little.

There is a constant tension in black metal philosophy between the Romanticism in the lyrics and sleeve design, and the bands' espousal of an icy and misanthropic take on anti-Christian morality, and belief in the supremacy of man. Many voices in the scene have expressed their admiration for animals in the wild, claiming a particular affinity with the wolf (Ulver created Nattens Madigal, a concept album about lycanthropy). This godless existence, with a reliance on actions of instinct, is echoed in Kindertotenlieder's delivery of meaning through movement in the snow, sometimes belly-crawling through it, other times dragging their feet across, creating small piles. A key scene involves one of the performers repeatedly bending over backwards, his outstretched arms leading him into a remarkably slow contortion of the human body. The focus here is on the power of man over the elements, over his own emotions- replacing the control of the mind on the body with something more primal.

That a number of people were moved to tears by this scene perhaps helps to reveal the ultimate attraction of black metal, and by association Kindertotenlieder. After all, we are not wolves. The snow is fake, wax shavings. The boy onstage isn't dead, and most of the figures are actually dolls. What's real, or truly 'kvlt', is an emotional experience, desolate and cold.

Now who's being romantic?

Contribution to Rallo

Jessica sits on a red rubber swing, moving slowly back, and forth. She looks up and around the frame. Its silver polished surface reflects the sun's shriek into her eyes at each point.

She squeezes them shut.

The chains holding her and the seat work together silently. A mute tension and release.
Jessica thinks, that's this place all over. Absence. Silence. I would fucking kill to hear some piano chords.

Jessica?
...
Jessica?
Oh my god, you're back! Where are you?
I can't see. It must be one of the lower levels. They've locked the door. It's all black.
Well, more a kind of dark violet.
Are you hurt?


Jessica stares ahead. The fence at the end of the playground is electric. Beyond the fence, dense woodland, which she has walked through dozens of times. Past the woods, it's a mystery.

My leg.
Huh?
My left leg. I think it's broken, maybe not. It's some kind of wrong anyhow, ow!
What the shit!
What is it?
I got pins and needles. Piss.


Jessica still looking straight ahead. For the past few minutes she has been watching a boy make his way out from the trees and through the thick, unkempt patches of grass toward her.

He stumbles rather well, she thought.

The boy was about twelve years old. He might also have been eighteen. His ruddy red cheeks, spattering of freckles and wild ginger hair belied any certainties, or even solid attempts at guesswork.

What's going on Jessica?
Sshh. Sorry. Some kid, this boy is walking towards me.
Inside the compound?
Outside.
How?
Shrug.


Reaching the fence, he straightens. A couple of quiet pops sound from his back. He clasps his hands together above his head, and rests them on top. With his elbows thrust forward like this, he looks sure of something.

Under his arms, huge damp spots of soaked shirt were exposed. Like ink-blot tests, thinks Jessica. What do I see in them?

The heat presses down all around, it's a merciless beat. She can smell sweat escape from her violet ballet slippers. It might have been the hottest day ever.

"So it's true", said the boy.


Beat. Beat.

He locks eyes with Jessica for a moment, and then lets his gaze stray past her, to behind. All the while chewing his upper lip, softly.

What's he doing Jess?
Just...nothing.


Jessica turns around, wrapping her right arm round the chain for balance.

The lab was large, windowless, grey. Featureless. It was cast entirely in shadow.

Jessica makes certain she is alone in this space with the boy, and looks back around to face him.

She smiles.

He emits a small grunt, falls into a minor coughing fit.

I smiled at him.
Oh. Are your teeth still all black?
Mmm-hmm.
Cool. Have some fun with him.


Two drops of water splash down lightly on to Jessica's face. She shoots a glance skyward. The warm blue was clear, so she widens her eyes, like when standing in front of new glass.

She realises that her eyes are watering again. Goddamn this hole. Bowing her head down to her lap, she flicks a look toward the boy again. She gently pulls the belt of her bathrobe free from the loops. She opens the left side, which folds across the right. Her small breast hung off her chest like a blob of white paint on primed canvas.

So?
I'm flashing my tit.
Ha.


The boy lifts his shirt to his face, and hurriedly sops up the cooling bubbles of liquid.

Jessica tilts her head to the side. Well?

The boy attempts a smile, but what came out was more oval-shaped than crescent. His jeans slid down to his ankles, then his...oh, he isn't wearing any underwear. He gathers his prick and bollocks into his fist and tugged, thrice. Then again.

His hand drops to his side. Jessica sees his little nub. She thinks to herself, it looks like something that ought to be pushed, rather than pulled. Like a button. She touches it, and he trips over his bundled trousers in surprise. His nose began to stream blood, and he yelled out.

He's running away now.
Did you scare him, Jessica?
Let me rub your leg. Where does it hurt? There?
There.
There?...there?...there?
Not there.
There?
Not there.


A half hour later, Rallo dropped his hand on Jessica's head, which rested on her folded hands against the swing seat. Her body was crumpled tired on the gravel, her robe slid down to her waist. Her eyes closed.

Rallo, melting.

'Are you still daydreaming about your 'velvet' revolution?'
'What's that?'
'Never mind. Would you like to hear a joke?'
'Shoot.'
'How much does a pirate pay to have his ears pierced? A buck an ear!'
'What's a pirate?'


============================

Link to 'Rallo'

Sunday, January 14, 2007

Old Joy (dir. Kelly Reichardt)

Talking to a twister's
like speaking in a mirror
Evrything I'm not,
and all that more.

She said to me,
"count to ten without
a single vicious thought",
but I could only count
to four.

Self-Portrait at 24