Soundscapes

Last night, I had the pleasure of photographing a band that is new to me, Harriet Tubman from NYC. NPR featured their last album here, but one doesn’t have to read about their sound to recognize its origins: American freedom songs, Hendrix, Funkadelic, and Sun Ra. The trio harmonizes history with personal despair, and hope: a heavy blues buoyed by a playground of effect pedals.  

Near the end of the set, Melvin Gibbs, mastering an impressive 5-string bass, offered up some of his heart: a frank observation on the topic of race in America and Europe. He was comedic in that wry, wrung way that is in fact deadly serious. “But I don’t want my opinions to reflect those of my cohorts,” he said, glancing over at his band mates.

“Don’t worry about that,” quipped guitarist Brandon Ross. He tapped a pedal with a bright green sneaker, and the language of the room changed from English to music. 

In Cloud Atlas, his cyclical novel about reincarnation, David Mitchel writes, “I understand now that boundaries between noise and sound are conventions.” One song flowing into another, the fluid set of Harriet Tubman brings attention to the illusion of division. “All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention if only one can first conceive of doing so,” writes Mitchel. 

Hearing music that is truly free inspires introspection: Where am I allowing myself to be corralled by arbitrary boundaries?  How am I stagnant? Some tunes are like strong gusts of wind. They blow the wig off the ego. It’s cold without those threadbare layers, but also fresh, bright as early morning.

Time to wake up a little.