Unraveling the Complications

 Life in the Mekong Delta - Viet Nam - September 2013

13 November 2013

Let's talk about the simplicity of bluegrass and its therapeutic values. Let's talk about how it's great art, say, somewhere right up there with the minimalism of Japanese Noh Theatre, or the bombast of the paintings of Fra Lippo Lippi in the Cathedral at Orvieto. I hear the disagreements coming in on my digital airwaves now. The naysayers, the non-believers, the great unwashed who have yet to experience the artistry of Bill Monroe, Pete Goble, Tony Rice, or Mike Munford. They wouldn't understand the emotional heartache of Edith Piaf, either. Or understand that the simplicity of this music comes out of the human struggle to survive; tries to paint a picture of the human landscape about them. The music is produced as unadorned as possible, and performed as unadorned as possible, with the voice and acoustical stringed instruments. Nothing more. No stage-sets, light shows, or smoke-machines. I'm reminded of this once again as I sit here and listen to James King's latest album Three Chords and The Truth.

     I'm also reflecting on a performance I saw just a few years ago. In the middle of nowhere; along the Mekong River, I had stopped to have some iced tea at a place called The Tiger Man's Farm. It was bloody hot and I was tired. We had been on boats all day long and then trudged along muddy dikes and over bamboo bridges to get there. The Tiger Man himself greeted us. He was a healthy, very strong, 80 year-old, wiry little guy with a smile you couldn't resist. He ran a 'fruit farm' which by Vietnamese standards meant he was fairly wealthy. These are not farms in our sense of the word. The farms are really long stretches of what appear to be impenetrable jungle until you realize they are regulated stands of hundreds of different varieties of tropical fruit. All kinds. When compared to our tasteless, two or three or four fruits grown in the U.S. it makes your head spin. I could go on and on about life in the Mekong Delta, but I'll save it for another time. Suffice it to say, I was in for a real treat at the Tiger Man's place. After some fruit and tea and talk about the old days, he ushered me and my friends to the rear of the house where I could hear some instruments being tuned. They were traditional instruments (I could name them for you, but it would only confuse the point of the story) plus a very out-of-tune guitar. There was a simply-built veranda fashioned out of bamboo and palm fronds near a fish pond. The back wall of the veranda was closed off with split-bamboo screening. There were two women who greeted us with tea. Three men were smiling and continuing to 'tune up.' We took a seat and were offered more tea and small cups of honey. Tiger Man took a seat, too, and continued to gaze at us with a goofy smile.

     The music started. I recognized the format of how this was going to unfold. There were patterns being played that announced the intent. First some poetry. Then some sung-poetry, and who knows what would happen next. The older lady, very beautiful (sans make-up and simply dressed,) started singing. After a few verses the younger woman joined in. After a few poems they stopped. We applauded. Not out of habit, but because we were really enjoying it. More music and some silence. The older woman announced in broken English the intent of the next selection: a song about loss. A young daughter is leaving her mother to join her new husband's family. The bulk of Vietnamese music is played in a minor key and that sets the stage for an emotional experience for the listener. All attention was upon the two women. The song, the accompanying movements of the women, the movements of the embracing arms, the steadfastness of certain gazes, evoked everything in the human experience of sadness. It was so simple, yet spoke a thousand complexities in the human condition. It brought tears. Even though I had seen this story before in other locales in Viet Nam, I had never seen it done this way by two singer/actors who could produce that afternoon's affect on strangers.

     We applauded wildly, there was a lot of hooting and hollering. The singers and musicians ambled away down a back-path into the trees. I asked Tiger Man who they were, and he told me they were just some of his laborers. We tried to offer him money. He wouldn't take it. It was time for us to be on our way. No one wanted to leave. The afternoon blaze of heat didn't seem to affect us any more.

     I have to keep these sorts of memories uppermost in my mind when I'm approaching any art-form, especially music, theatre, or dance. They can take you to experiences and places where you may go once and then never have the opportunity to return. This was pointed out to me in the late 80's when I hosted an Afgantsi soldier in my home. The Afgantsi are the Russian veterans who served in Russia's own war with Afghanistan. It was a bitter, heart-wrenching experience not unlike our own Vietnam experience. I asked him what was the one thing he wanted to do while he stayed here. "I want to go to the Phillips Gallery and see a painting," he replied. He had studied art before the Russian Army threw him into a war.. The Phillips Gallery? OK, easy for me. I can go down there any day of the week. Alexei and I went the following day. I watched him as he studied every painting and made a lot of comments. He stood in front of one painting by Monet and tears welled up in his eyes. I asked him why he was crying. He said he'd studied this painting, had knock-offs of it, and knew it was in this collection and he knew he'd have an opportunity to see it. He then made a statement that registered for life: "I've wanted to see this my whole life. I might never see it again." Alexei had been badly wounded. He was blind in one eye and he was losing sight in the other. He was still a young man. His passion for the love of art was keeping him going. He thanked me again and again for the afternoon.

     Whether it's unadorned Vietnamese music, unadorned bluegrass music, or the paintings sans adornment of the Impressionists, the lesson learned always for me is less is better. I love the folly of youth. The folly of youth also tracks in its own consistency of repetitious folly. The need to adorn, replicate, duplicate, and copy the folly of other artists and entertainers. We older folks complain that the reason for this is a lack of life experience. Period. End of discussion. I think it goes deeper than that - because once in a blue moon I'm shocked with an encounter of youthful and genuine talent. In a while, maybe not for years, that seed of  talent will develop and mature into something more if allowed, (with a lot of persistence) to grow into great art. Bluegrass has become my form of therapy to explore the boundaries of my own appreciation of art, artists, musicians, and the entertainment professions. Sounds wild, I know. But when you think about it, it's basically the most grounded, most original, American art-form we've inherited. I'm having a lot of fun starting at that point. But I had to return to that point, too. I had to go back to it time and again. The message is there - if you listen closely enough.