Gabriel Saloman’s booming taiko rolls along in Movement Building Vol. 2 catching the body’s signal, allowing spots to open up in the air where the vertebrate body can twist and contort to fit, comfortably, all semblance of instruction replaced by an invitation to move, to whip potential energy out along the extremities and hear it expelled, or to move slightly and gently and pass the sound through your bones like a conduit, or to keep it held within, building pressure, a body once confined opening up infinite options, unfurling subtleties, slipped rudiments, subdivisions along bending joints (the shoulders shrugged, the elbows bent, the fingers spread out, the knees unlocked), making permutations, for any stage that could appear, for a dance made ready, pitter-pattering snare hammering motion, floor tom a rebuttal, a tensor tympani, a gwely mernan, a slow and measured stroke, careful and deliberate, prepared, only to vanish again into cerebrum, into piercing pre-performance, music as quiet as thought, but clear with fear, growing loud from nowhere like tinnitus, breaching with real cymbals, in the real air and back again, breath held, air peeking out, noise en pointe, on a wire, shimmering out violence, amassing and shedding layers, teasing harmony only as it comes easy, squeaky, creepy, beneath waves of dissonance, splicing frigid oscillance, eked out like muscle knots stretched into relief, a headache assuaged, pressing fingers to temples until the tension bursts, a thick eardrum pop, and the body emerges again refreshed, skeletal, re-balanced, pulled taut, stronger and fiercer, becomes a musical martial arts play, swung with an immense weight and grace, thundering a heavy beat, a display of exquisite practice and patience-piece, landing on an utter pinpoint, a kairos, a heartbeat, a moment, a thump, a wait, a pause, a slow, slow, understanding, an eventual summit, an arduous climb reaching an emotive, expansive landscape that grew flush, familiar, the swelling déjà vu mind walking through the same motions, rebuilding movement, abrasive swirling narcotic waves, abrasive insistent sonic notions, evocative, studied rhythms, decided, dense, amassing in a seemingly unlimited space, broken through to a watery, earthy place, flowing sound with precision along long corridors and cold caverns, with obligation, without an option, at the pace of lungs, recycling, obeying, but quickly returning to a shattered jazz, a broken swing, collisions of gold trumpets and silver slivers, another dance music that engaged the body, and the mind, and the physicality of its players, and showed the humanity in the brusque and reminded us that risk is rewarded and music is a continuous communication.
More about: Gabriel Saloman, Yellow Swans
