A mind-opening afternoon with Meredith Monk.

By Adam Olenn
Berklee.edu Correspondent
November 15, 2005

Photo by Phil Farnsworth

Monk was the keynote speaker at my graduate school commencement at Boston Conservatory, and though she and I were in the same room that day, my first direct encounter with her came years later, thanks to my day job at Berklee.

One of the benefits of being a staff member here is I occasionally get to attend master classes. When I spotted the flyer for Monk's recent clinic, I knew I would go and had a strong suspicion that her visit was not going to be the typical artist-performs-then-takes-questions fare.

Monk began the class by encouraging the audience to join her on stage to sing. Her initial request was fulfilled by a few eager volunteer vocalists, but as she continued to emphasize that it was a participatory experience, more people joined the group at the front of the room. By the time her teaching began, two-thirds of those who had been sitting were on or near the stage. Understand that while I am a musician, I am not a singer. But it's not every day you get to participate in a workshop with a composer of this stature, so I summoned up some courage and trotted to the stage.

Monk began the session by leading the group through a series of stretching exercises to loosen the body and mind in preparation for the physical act of singing and the mental exercise of improvisation. She transitioned from preparation to performance through a breathing exercise. We were encouraged to move in response to our breath, and after a few repetitions, Monk asked everyone to let a tone resonate with each exhalation. The resulting tone cluster was very dense and reminiscent of Gyorgy Ligeti's work. I noticed interesting harmonies between myself and those around me.

We all experimented with different parts of our register, and the sound of the group was large and powerful. Katie Geissinger, a singer in Monk's troupe, led us through syllabic warm-ups to strengthen the diaphragm. Then she asked us to continue–but while twirling on one leg. The silliness and fun of it was reminiscent of 1st grade, which was a good thing, because playfulness in music is important. And it tricked me into forgetting my inhibitions about singing and got me to open up.

Geissinger taught us a cheery melody with the following lyric: "When I was out walking on a May day, I heard a bird sing cuckoo." The last word was to be punctuated with one clap. She led us through the tune until everyone had learned it, then divided the room into sections and cued us to enter in canon. The canon had an amusing side effect; as groups were singing, new lyrical combinations resulted, like "when I was cuckoo." Once the canon was rolling, everyone was instructed to mingle while keeping up their part. This is where being a participant was essential, because as you walked by other people, you would hear the tension and release of your part blending with theirs.

Next, Monk had the group follow her as she vocalized various complex meters, culminating in a 3+5+3+2+2+1 pattern. She encouraged everyone to stomp and move to help them feel the divisions of rhythm, rather than trying to just count it. It helped quite a lot to do this, and we mingled again, looking each other in the eyes on the accent beats. I felt a visceral connection to the divisions of rhythm and meter. And by collaborating to create a composite sound, we felt less like individuals and more like one large organism.

Photo by Phil Farnsworth

This rhythm study was followed by a two-bar improvisation. Monk began by singing a simple motif she repeated every eight beats. Going around the circle of participants, everyone was asked to add a brief and simple musical gesture and repeat it. One person sang a long high note while another cleared his throat. I resolved Monk's melody an octave lower, and the girl next to me sang a James Brown horn lick. Monk instructed us to find the empty space in the evolving sound. Some people added to the high end, some to the bass, some to the percussive mosaic. At times, Monk would have some folks drop out, and we got to hear the sound change. It felt as though we had become the instrument and she was playing us.

The last exercise was an excerpt from one of Monk's pieces. We all learned three syllabic patterns. Then we began singing one after the other. The idea was to choose randomly from the three patterns and keep the basic pulse flowing, but without singing in rhythmic unison with either neighbor. It sounded like bells ringing. After we held the groove for a while, soloists were invited to come to the center of the circle and improvise. Laura Brunner, a voice student, sang a Middle East–flavored melody that was beautiful and haunting.

After the participatory exercises, several students presented works for Monk to hear. Some were singers working with established repertoire, and some were composers. In all cases, Monk had insightful, constructive, and encouraging feedback for the artists. She recommended that one singer use more of his range. She suggested to another student that she take her compositional ideas further. In all of her comments, she expressed an appreciation for what the students had done well and gave them clear advice about ways to improve.

It was enlightening to be a part of Meredith's Monk creative process, and it refocused my attention on one of the most crucial aspects of music—it must be fun. Her sense of play and uninhibited creativity combined all of the freedom and joy of childhood with the critical self-awareness of adulthood. Her sensitivity and humanity are the driving forces behind her art, and it was an education to experience them firsthand.

Adam Olenn, a bassist and composer, is Berklee's web producer for institutional advancement.