Arad Evans: In 1986, not long in the City, I got into my decrepit Oldsmobile, balanced a paper map on my knee and steered towards Coney Island to see my heroes: John Cage meets Sun Ra at Sideshows by the Seashore, then a faded venue for sword swallowers and magicians on the boardwalk. Cage: the master of chance and indeterminacy, the mushroom-eating mother-stone of the uptown avant-garde. Sun Ra: the big band veteran, channeling the hot gasses of his home planet — said to be Jupiter. It was packed; it started very late. We waited on folding chairs, with the surf, boardwalk chatter, and seagulls for background.
Finally, they took the stage. Sun Ra came on in shimmering robes, led by a priest figure bearing an ankh and a cohort of dancers. Cage in jeans and denim shirt, sat by himself at a card table. Sun Ra unleashed his improvisatory might on a DX7, fifteen seconds in and every musical bias and preconception was floating some miles offshore. Then it was Cage, singing or chanting mesostic syllables, from a small book, interspersed with long, intentional silences. The words, the seagulls, passersby, and waves merged into a stunning, gorgeous whole.
Back and forth and then together they went, two giants conversing over our heads, like friends from different planets. Speaking in the language of gods as it seemed to me. I’ve learned a lot since then, but I thought I knew it all as I headed for home. ❖
The Whimbrels’ eponymous debut album will be available on June 27.