Ya Ya Ya

I am in a darkened room.  Through the gap between chairs along the aisle I can see a small black-draped stage.  On it sits a white turntable.  A Nordic woman walks slowly to the front with a white record, takes it out of the sleeve, places it in on the machine and sets it going.  She pauses a moment, as one does after lighting a candle to be sure it is lit, then moves gracefully away and down the aisle to the back of the hall.

Behind her the spinning record emits the sound of a deep male 'Ya-Ya’, interspersed and overlaid with a female ‘Ya-Ya’, higher pitched, less regular, and often very excited.  The spotlight shining on the turntable bounces onto the rear wall, so we can see the square, the circle, and a diffraction image caused by the grooves.  It looks as if the sound is made visible.

We sit, quiet, polite, it is impossible in the dark and from behind to tell if people are quiet and still because they are engrossed or because they are trapped – rapt or trapped?  The Ya Ya Ya continues.  The male voice sounds the same, a droning tired ya ya ya.  The woman crests and falls, with pauses between her ya yas.  I think of a boring businessman at dinner, narrating his petty office squabbles, while his female companion makes encouraging noises, perhaps because she hasn’t been paid yet.  I am reminded of the diner scene in 'When Harry Met Sally', where the character played by Meg Ryan demonstrates the ease with which she can make it sound like she is having an orgasm.  A minor mental ramble through Meg’s movies uses up a few more moments – minutes or seconds, I cant tell in this strange trapped-in-nightmare space.

The attention in this meaningless space also reminds me of a Pentecostal revivalist meeting, where the speaking in tongues is met with reverence and envy and praise, without anyone knowing what the sounds mean.  I’ve always been wary of crowds and fervor, always worrying that I’ll somehow be induced to go up and Be Saved.

I watch the almost but not sufficiently hypnotic pulse of the reflected image.  I wish I could see the position of the needle, so I knew how much longer the thing would go on.  I have a sudden fear there is a side B.  I recollect sitting in concerts where I crane to see how thick the music is on the unplayed side of the sheet, getting caught out by repeats. I also remember an evening at the Wigmore Hall where Ravi Shankar placed his watch in front of him on the mat and then seemed to seemed to play until his watch told him to stop. I remind myself that many people chose knowingly to sit there, rather than just using a free ticket from a flatmate.

The sounds stop.  The elegant woman goes slowly to the recorder, picks up the record, and pauses facing the audience.  She is waiting for the applause.    We pick up the cue and clap.  When we stop she tells us about the piece.

These two voices were recorded in the same studio but at different times.  The man, in his eighties, was asked to say Ya until he couldn’t any more.  He seems to see the brief as continually saying Ya, which he heroically did without pause for 22 minutes.  Unknown to him, the artist has also stopped at 22 minutes, though her Yas were much more varied and with longer gaps. Fewer Ya’s, more verve-.  Perhaps the same amount of effort then.  These two tracks are overlaid and became a record.  At the first performance the setup accidently produced a reflected image on the red curtain behind.  It is noticed,  and a visual performance is born.  

Such is art.