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* Français CeQuiSePasseLinteriorBouche.pdf)

El disc de solo de la saxofonista de París d’origen libanès Christine Sehnaoui amaga un cert misteri [“SOLO”, Olofbright, 2006]. 30 minuts de sons aquàtics, ofegats, harmònics imperceptibles, harmonies ocultes, soroll blanc, rosa i gris pausats amb respiracions. Hi ha algú sota l’aigua que intenta dir alguna cosa. El saxofonista suec Mats Gustafsson diu que Sehnaoui fa música electrònica amb un instrument acústic. I de fet, escoltant la gravació la dimensió que adquireix la seva tècnica musical – el seu buf – és sorprenent i intensa com ho podria ser una sessió de música electroacústica. Sents que hi ha algú que respira i que està tocant un saxo alt – algú que busca aire pujant a la superfície en el seu viatge per les profunditats de l’aigua – però podria ser perfectament algú que mou osciladors de potència d’una taula de pistes per provocar tot tipus de sorolls i freqüencies. La precisió i la riquesa harmònica oculta en cada un dels sons – fruit per igual del caprici del aire i de la ressonància i de l’estudi profund del propi instrument – t’emporta com a oient a aquestes mateixes profunditats. És molt recomanable l’escolta amb auriculars per apreciar la minuciosiosa orografia sonora, ple d’arestes, valls inesperades, aigües salvatges, dunes, camins i salts al buit. El discurs obté la seva màxima esplendor gràcies a un curós treball amb el silenci, que en forma de curtes interrupcions i respiracions provoca que en aquest encadenat de textures hi hagi sempre un rítme, una marxa cap endavant. La musicalitat és oculta però efectiva i atractiva. Passats els 30 minuts, et quedes amb ganes de més, de saber què més es pot fer amb un saxo sense fer ni una sola nota reconeixible.

Senhaoui treballa amb freqüències, microtons i sorolls, tot a molt baixa intensitat, on el treball detallista i de textures té més possibilitats. La seva proposta musical llueix millor en una gravació, tot i que és en directe quan es pot veure la munió de tècniques pròpies i inventades, o no, que utilitza i que parteixen de les anomenades extended techniques: respiració circular, bufar sense la boquilla, posicions de dits inusuals que trenquen la lògica de la pròpia mecànica de l’instrument, posar un tub de cartró dins de la campana per buscar noves ressonàncies, taponar el saxo amb una ampolla d’aigua, etcètera. És curiós com en un món on sembla que ja ho hem vist tot, un encara es queda perplex intentant asmiliar el que veu amb el que perceben les orelles. Què passa dins de la seva boca que provoca tots aquells sons estranys? És el secret dels instrumentistes de vent, posseïdors d’una tècnica ocultaque els fa ser diferents dels guitarristes, per exemple, perquè els dits i les mans i els peus pitjant pedals sempre els delaten. Els bufadors usen la llengua, les dents, la saliva, l’aire, les cordes vocals i la cavitat vocal. L’interior del cos.

Senhaoui és rossa, té el cabell llarg i té una curiosa piga que trepitja de forma entremaliada la ralla que delimita el seu llavi superior. En una recent visita a Barcelona, la primera que la fa la parisenca per fer un concert, em va dir sense complexos: “Tot el que sé ho he après per mi mateixa, provant i provant. He fet alguns workshops però gairebé no tinc relació amb la partitura, sé llegir poc”. Aquest fet no semblava fer-la sentir menys músic. Un cop acabada l’actuació va deixar el seu saxo sobre la cadira on havia tocat i es va submergir en la zona de bar a beure vi i parlar amb certa timidesa amb els presents. No el va recollir fins que ens van fer fora de la sala. El saxo es va passar ben bé dues hores sol sobre una cadira, amb l’escenari nu de cables i altre material tècnic que ja havien quedat recollits tot just van acabar els aplaudiments. Potser la noia volia castigar aquell tros de metall daurat amb el que acabava de viure una intensíssima sessió de música aquàtica improvisada i respiració i hiperventilació al límit. Potser necessitaven descansar l’un de l’altre.

Licencia de Creative Commons
Ce qui se passe a l’intérieur de la bouche by Olga Àbalos is licensed under a Creative Commons Reconocimiento-CompartirIgual 3.0 Unported License.

7 thoughts on “ᴥ EL QUE PASSA DINS DE LA BOCA – Christine Sehnaoui

  1. Retroenllaç: ᴥ ANDY MOOR – So cru « El mètode Klosé

  2. Ack!

    I’ve meant to comment; I can’t read French! Not “I don’t have French” meaning I need the French text.

    My only phrase in French I can speak, I think may translate as “what is the price of the room in the hotel of the horse’s ass?”

    After two weeks at a large music school where French was a required subject, trying to as turned out successfully, salvage a B average through my one year there as the doubtless least talented of two thousand music majors at the University of North Texas; there for the jazz program the ’70-’71 academic year, I dropped French after two weeks.

    So, I got “what is the price of a room” down pretty good in conversational French; where as fifteen year-old the first half the summer of ’67 I worked very casually for an older man, valedictorian as a fifteen year-old of my high school there in 1917; who’d been publishing a weekly single-sheet newspaper since 1957 called THE SATURDAY EVENING FREE PRESS who in one issue during the two years I subscribed; mentioned “my sole ambition at the age of sixty-eight is to become the world’s greatest general nuisance.”

    Thus, a character long given to brilliant schemes hoaxing people; where for instance as a person with an elaborate collection of old newspaper printing devices and a single hand press with beautiful varieties of type in many type-cases, he would print up amazingly beautiful, phoney letterheads for fictitious businesses or other concerns. One great one I remember “Bel-Aire Mental Hospital”; and another in French, which translated as “The Hotel of The Horse’s Ass.” Where Derrière de Chuval is about all of that, I know for sure.

    Police in ’57 had attempted to destroy his place; when a pair new to the town’s force recently fired from Boeings as security guards for theft, he’d written up in his paper. They had come one night to his home, beat him up and left him for dead after breaking his lower jaw always sideways in his mouth he’d never had reset, then set his house on fire; who was a little guy who lived on to the age of eight-three as a person, when I’d worked for him, a landed pauper living in his grandmother’s cavernous gingerbread Victorian style home, in the center of a prosperous town. That was a place which hadn’t seen a coat of paint in about fifty years, surrounded by a dense growth of some forty-three different varieties of trees nearly hiding the house from view, he’d kept fertilized using his own feces.

    One day needing to poop, I’d asked to use the bathroom, and ended up cleaning an eighth of an inch of black soot off the seat and lid of the toilet; which had covered much of the rest of the room too, still there from the fire ten years previously.

    After the sun went down I’d stay up until dawn as he’d told me stories about himself, then ride my old 24″ three-speed bike the five miles to my family’s home under some power lines, where we’d had two acres so my youngest sister could have an old white horse named Daphne. At the top of the Green Lantern Road, to climb into bed just before anyone else woke up; of the rest of the seven of us. Five siblings all women younger than me close to me in age; and the standard mother and father, if sort of a non-standard issue of those in many ways.

    Unusually for me I have never remembered a thing about those long nights listening to him; which were not unenjoyable at all of being given an amazing attention by a greatly remarkable man, and the bicycle ride in the fresh morning country air along a major river absolutely delicious with never a car or anything else but me, ever on the road. Sensations I guess blanking out even those precious evenings alone together.

    I was told by a rich lawyer friend of my father in the early ’70s; he was considered “the most brilliant legal mind in the country outside the legal profession.” Someone if you’d pissed him off sufficiently was as good as getting legally tarred and feathered. He reserved only to reward people and/or institutions whom he’d really been incensed with.

    The world famous hobo journalist, printer, publisher and author John Patric; whose 1946 book YANKEE HOBO IN THE ORIENT is his best known work, though also writing several long articles published along with his extensive photographs in NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC during the 1930s; as someone they’d then liked hiring, as he’d been able to travel much more cheaply than anyone they knew. Though after the war suffering being black-listed, as their advertisers took over the editorial function.

    Always inspiring me with a line early in the text of YANKEE HOBO IN THE ORIENT; about an often elusive ideal for female companionship, “a lover, a lady and a pal.”

    I’m sure now the reason I’ve stuck with trying to play alto saxophone since the age of ten, despite twice having been told by experts “you have absolutely no talent” both world famous Shona tribal musician from Zimbabwe the late Dumi Mariare my teacher, and “world famous underground jazz legend” and friend since the early ’80s, Bert Wilson.

    A better reason than any other I can think of, probably; in fact the sole reason the instrument ever got invented, no?

    BOB JASTAD(aka “Jazz Bobstad,” Baba DumBumb, “The BobWhan,” etc.)
    Art is the means whereby(a) society advances: Religion is the definition of the parameters of art. Poetry is the actualization of these…(my meditation/contemplation on the reputed reply of Charlie Parker when asked his faith: “Devout Musician;” with inspiration from author James Baldwin, perhaps particularly his early book’s second chapter in NOBODY KNOWS MY NAME)

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