Henry Powderly

Alacrity could mean wild if it weren’t for its definition
and
love could mean beauty if not for its fangs
its appetite and flocculent poison
I watch the philanderers lock hands and walk by
and see no bite marks, no scars, no bleed from love’s prong

Uncut they are defined
but
If only we were more willing to bleed.
If only this fixity, this cold need to forge ourselves with ourselves,
if only the finite could be broad and our interests filtered through a screen of unexpected tones,

If only cemeteries were more than flippant stones.

When I see the world foster itself
I pray
for famine and disarray.

When I see each moment foist itself on its definition
I feel
no end.

When I see the laser phantom of right now
I surrender,

and wonder how I will be defined
when I take my place in the rows
of corpses and sprout
flowers from my head.

Most of my compositions are for solo piano, but when it came to creating my improvised album, Calendar, I tried something new. Using a synthesizer.

My first semester at Manhattan School of Music I took a MIDI class, which taught me how to create recordings of ensemble pieces without needing an ensemble. I loved it, and for more than 10 years I wanted my own setup; a keyboard, a set of synthesizer sounds, and a computer. I never had the cash.

Then, almost two years ago, after my employer unplugged my PC and handed me a MacBook – at my own prodding – I made the leap. Apple’s Garageband software, which came with the computer, looked like the idiot-proof program I needed. And for less than $300 I bought a full-sized, USB-powered keyboard. Finally I had the rudimentary studio I always wanted. And I had just the project in mind to break it in.

I decided I would create Calendar, an album where each track represented a month of the year, in a completely improvised fashion.

I’d start by thinking about a certain month, putting myself in the very mood of the month, gathering mental images, thinking about what instruments capture all of that. Then I’d noodle through the bank of synth sounds, come up with a quick melodic motif I thought felt right, pick the instrument I wanted to use for the lead track and just hit ‘record’ and play. If I didn’t like the track, I’d sometimes come up with a new motif, and go again. But I never wrote anything down. I wanted the music to feel spontaneous and vulnerable, imperfect was fine. Mood mattered most.

Next I’d just start layering the song with new sounds and instruments, playing along with the lead track, until I felt the song had enough color. The process was wonderful.

I’d played scores of gigs as a saxophonist, and I guess 99 percent of all the notes I ever played in public were improvised. But I’d never just improvised a song. And though improvising with my saxophone has always been a far more intimate experience, as it’s much easier to express what I want to express when I’m playing the horn, these improvised songs are much closer to the sounds I hear in my head. Improvising with my saxophone is like putting a nozzle on a garden hose. The spray is focused and fast, organized and able to be aimed. But improvising these songs was like taking the nozzle off, and the music just glub-glubbed right out of me.

Listen to them here. And any input is welcomed.

I write more about each track later.

College is a dramatic time, and I milked it good when it came to writing my first novel. But to this day I’ve never felt as driven to put my art above all else as I did then.

I think it had to do with how my first book, The Host, came to be.

One night, after a marathon college drinking session at the local New Paltz bar The Oasis, after the bar shut and I walked to my apartment, after I collapsed in my bed, stared at my walls and followed the thought parade that was keeping me awake until it all quieted down before I was inches from sleep, I heard a whisper in my room, in my head, that didn’t sound like it came from me at all.

I immediately jumped out of bed grabbed a pen and wrote the sentence down on a piece of paper. Then I thought about it a little, and finally fell asleep.

The next morning I saw the paper on my desk. “A tornado is reflective reason,” it read.

For the rest of the day I couldn’t stop thinking about that sentence, and in doing that a whole story opened up in my brain. It felt like a fuse has just been lit. The more I thought about it the more the story grew. Then I sat down, grabbed my favorite silver fountain pen, and the three-year explosion of writing The Host began.