Hot Dog Frank Rosaly!

I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I did not have a soundtrack for my memories and daily activities. My soundtrack consists of recorded music, trains, bird songs and passing cars. I am compelled to tap glass and metal, to create a rhythm of distraction and amusement. Last week I built a fire in the wood stove. I grabbed the spray bottle and sprayed the hot stove a few times. The water hit the stove on the top, at the sides, the door and the pipe, each spot producing a different kind of sound. I started creating a rhythm and soon the pattern I had created mimicked the sounds of an approaching locomotive. This brought me a great deal of afternoon entertainment.

I don’t often share these sorts of things with anyone. I suppose I think I will be judged as silly or strange for being obsessed with the sounds of a wood stove but after seeing the Frank Rosaly concert I feel justified in my strange past times.

Frank Rosaly performed at the Coconino Center for the Arts last Thursday night. From the moment he entered the building with the manic energy of a grasshopper bouncing from place to place, setting up and asking questions, I had the feeling I would not be disappointed despite my high expectations of the show.

He sat alone on the stage surrounded by a drum set and an open case containing a piece of sound equipment that he would later use to manipulate sounds and play recorded samples. His performance was never predictable. He removed a cymbal from the high hat and raked it across the snare drum, creating a sound that had me feeling simultaneously uncomfortable and intrigued. He did this for what seemed like 2 or 3 minutes until he moved onto something else. He pushed the sound to the limits of my tolerance and yet my ears weren’t ready to let go of the eerie tone resembling the playing of a poorly tuned cello. He did similar things with a fork on various drumheads and cymbals between skilled and energetic drum playing. The tempo would increase and drop off into awkward moments of silence. Frank would hesitate, making jerky, frantic movements toward different objects, before finding just the right tool for the sound he was searching for. A spotlight illuminated the space surrounding him and at one particularly captivating part of his performance, a moth fluttered up and down toward the drum set in time with his playing nearly landing on the high hat.

I leaned forward on the edge of my seat throughout the performance. I couldn’t sit still. I felt a connection to his intense preoccupation with sound and his need to explore the instrumental possibilities of his surroundings.

Between sets, Frank spoke for a few minutes expressing gratitude to the people of Flagstaff who had supported him at different points of his life before and after he moved to Chicago. He was full of humility and kindness and it was easy to approach him and thank for his performance. I bought his latest project: Milkwork, on vinyl which includes a free MP3 download of the album and headed home talking about the show for most of the ride.

Arriving home, I stood the album up on the dresser before going to bed. I fell asleep feeling inspired. I have added another soundtrack to my life, one that makes me feel okay about dragging the pots and pans out on a Sunday afternoon for an improvisational jam session in the kitchen.