There is an abundance of timbre in the human voice, which no orchestra possesses. Nature seems to have endowed the curious instrument, with subtle nuances for which music has no equivalent. For those who also venture out to seek more foreign musical terrains, it is thus rather unfortunate, that they will eventually happen upon a bridge, and be caught aloof by a suspicious little troll who will not allow them to cross without paying forth a toll. The troll declares: “Either you trod back through those traditional planes where the human voice rises and falls, warbling as though from the throats of birds, or you cross and abandon it forever.” In actuality the poles are not so distinct, however, a number of days ago I came to realize, with some surprise, that the human voice hadn’t embedded its footprint in any of the musical paths I had been stumbling through.
Such an unfolding of events should probably not strike with much surprise. Those unafraid to wield their voices, often employ it so as to enforce a rigid structure upon those unruly little subjects of sound. So it comes as no revelation that when granted freedom from this totalitarian dictator, the voice, that, like those who attended a Catholic all boys school when they were young, those unruly little subjects of sound rebel as though there’s no tomorrow.
This is not to say that the various avenues of experimental instrumental music are not pleasing enough. Indeed, as of late, I have found other rewards in those rather alien alcoves, which would have otherwise remained dormant. In the absence of the voice, other sounds, such as the doomed teetering of the ship found in Nurse With Wound’s, Saint Marie Celeste, have begun to construct bridges, which lead to similar responses. As these new bridges are built, its seems as though the way in which you reach those desired responses matters little.
The voice may then be seen in a precarious situation. If these new bridges, which lead to similar responses, can and are being erected, than perhaps the voice needs to find new corridors of expression or sink into the image of a worn out metaphor, now riddled with cliche. To me, a voice in conventional form, (verse/chorus/verse) or expression (strained emo cries), seems akin to a poets use of rhythm. Poets mockingly turned their backs on rhythm (though not all) long ago, and though the musical version may have a longer life span, unless it finds new habitats, I wonder whether it too must die at some point.
These are a few reasons why I was pleased to discover Maja Ratkje’s album entitled, Voice, a number of weeks ago. Made up of eleven pieces, Voice, utilizes Ratkje’s flexible voice as a sound source. Throughout, Ratkje’s vocal prowess is exhibited and the results simply stunning. Often she plays with contrasts (seductive/painful), as on “Vacuum,” where her a-capella singing is threatened by a squall of echoes, or “Insomnia,” wherein torturous screams are interrupted by laughter. Once the album closes it becomes quite clear that there remains an abundance of trails for the voice to pass through, if it should so please. A voice can communicate with the listener as a beautiful fluting sound, but also, perhaps just as well through these unorthodox, almost bestial snarls and screams. At times these wordless stirrings are able to better communicate than words (one of the reasons why I enjoy Sigur Ros), and though I don’t believe anyone should run away from words (or traditional forms) altogether, a place where they don’t reign supreme, definitely makes for a nice vacationing spot.