Fred Lonberg-Holm (cello and various), Improv #1, Elastic Arts, Chicago, 8/11/08
Skin, draped and looping. Long, thin-thick stretches of it, extending and contracting its own strip-expanses, like an octopus with both arm-ends attached: derma- elastic teacup multiplied, draped arms radiating outward from an undefined center.
Falling now, a gravity-variable journey "downward": we drop down in space a few inches only to "scratch" ourselves backwards, like a vertically manipulated disc in time/space: d o w n - w - n - w - n - w - n. Gravity tightens its sound control: knobs tuned so finely that we are virtually suspended in Butoh-like, verging-on-absurd, verging-on-obscene tension vibration.
The tension slackens. We expand our corporeal existence-- rubbing sensually-obscenely against the walls of the tubular, shoot-like container that shapes us subtly while containing us oppressively. Inside this manhole that undulates more or less, we rub our undulating skin-fat against these walls, creating sounds of gross pleasure-- private, almost pornographic, repetitive rub-downs. Friction against our own walls-- we trap ourselves in this topography of contact.
When we come, it draws out, a sharp, piercing trajectory that outlives our expectations for sustained erotic noise. Lulled into this extension cradle of lengthening frequency, we inhabit a single pierced hole in our collective flesh, drilling our way to the (other) side of orgasm, to the far shore of self-gratification, pushing ourselves so far past the coming that we begin to break down, blips in our self-transmission, losing ourselves in the pieces of nothing, the pieces skipped over, the gaps in our flight.
Our oscillation between something and nothing distills us, finally, into a brute-beautiful motor: we are simple: humming: function: pure.