(Cassandra Wilson; if you know who photographed this, please let me know.)

Today, with WWOZ playing quietly in the background while I was at work, the DJ played Cassandra Wilson’s rendition of “Darkness on the Delta,” which brought back memories of seeing and hearing Wilson perform under a tent at the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival (a.k.a. “JazzFest”) to a relatively small but fully attentive audience. New Orleans loves musicians like no other city I’ve known. Sadly, I found out later via a text from a fellow former New Orleanean that Wilson died on Wednesday, September 2, 2026, in Jackson, Mississippi. She was 70.

Back in 2012, I had the pleasure of interviewing Wilson, and I thought I’d share that piece here. I have a lot of memories of her music as it traveled with me from New Orleans, to New York City, to Houston, and I may write more about that in a future post. Until then, please enjoy the following conversation, which includes some very astute amd prescient observations about jazz in its many incarnations.

With Another Country, Cassandra Wilson continues to expand the boundaries of jazz

By Chris Becker

“Is that a trick question?” says singer Cassandra Wilson when I ask her if her latest album Another Country is a “jazz” album.

Recorded in Florence, Italy, with co-producer and guitarist Fabrizio Sotti, the music on Another Country is a rich, seductive amalgam of Mediterranean, Brazilian, and West African musical styles, realized by an ensemble that includes Julien Labro on accordion, Nicola Sorato on acoustic bass, and Lekan Babaola and Mino Cinelu on percussion.

It features seven originals, six co-written by Wilson with Sotti, two gorgeous solo guitar pieces by Sotti, and Wilson’s fresh and totally convincing rendition of the Neapolitan classic, “O Sole Mio.”

Despite its title, the album sounds as if Wilson, who over the course of her career has greatly expanded the very definition of a “jazz” singer by singing Delta blues, ‘60s-era British pop (”Last Train to Clarksville”), and classic country, has found a home in a musical genre she herself has created.

Can one describe the music on Another Country as “jazz?”

“I think a better question is, instead of speaking of genres, what’s the process?” Wilson explains. “Because jazz for me is not just a genre, it’s an approach. And it’s a discipline. Is there improvisation (on the new record)? Yes. Are there unusual forms? Yes.”

“Does it swing?” Wilson laughs.

I tell her to my ears, it definitely grooves.

“Yeah. I’ve answered ‘yes’ to all of those questions,” Wilson says. “Whether or not you want to stick it inside of the jazz genre proper is up to you.”

Creating a language

The first track on Another Country, “Red Guitar,” sets up its groove beginning with a solitary rhythm played on a single acoustic guitar string. Then, over what sounds like a field recording of foot traffic in an Italian piazza, come some tasty electric guitar fills and a few high-sustained tones from an accordion. Then Wilson’s distinctive mezzo voice arrives along with conga and shaker to lock it down:

“Wash my face with blue water,

Lay my head on white linens,

Morning comes, drink black coffee,

Then I play my song on red guitar.”

It sounds like a statement of purpose, signifying a new chapter in Wilson’s musical life.

“Yes, it’s very exciting,” says Wilson. “The way (Sotti) and I would work, he would come up with these sketches, these ideas, and we would sit together, and suggest the form, possible form…and then I started to write the melodies.”

Along with that collaborative process, Wilson was also enjoying being back in the world of lyric writing.

“It’s very challenging! But it is a great time to be a musician and to be a woman who’s a musician.”

Says Wilson, “Writing lyrics gave me an opportunity to start to once again express my feelings, and my thoughts, and the patterns of those thoughts, in my own language.”

Wilson’s repertoire stretches back through the so-called American songbook (i.e. “standards”), as well as several mid-’80s to early ‘90s recordings with members of the New York-based, forward-thinking musicians collective M-Base (short for “Macro-Basic Array of Structured Extemporization”), whose mission was to build on the foundation of classic jazz “a new way to communicate the evolution of the music.”

“I’ve always loved standards,” says Wilson. “And I especially love to hear the great singers perform standards. But I was always thinking of a new form of expression, a new way to bring jazz alive inside of a new context.”

It was fellow M-Base member saxophonist Steve Coleman who initially encouraged Wilson to explore the world of music beyond bebop and standard tunes.

“When (Steve) met me, I was such a Bird (Charlie Parker) enthusiast,” says Wilson. “And he was really impressed with that. But he said, ‘You’re not going to be able to make a name for yourself. Betty Carter’s already done that. What’s your contribution going to be? What is your sound going to be? You have to begin to write your own music, to write about your own experiences.’”

Not surprisingly, Wilson is quick to point out how crucial it was for her to have a strong foundation in classic jazz in order to become the artist she is today.

“It’s a part of the discipline of a jazz musician to…go back as far as you can,” says Wilson. “Listen to people like Lester Young, you know? Listen to the early recordings of Coleman Hawkins. Listen to Billie Holiday. And try to understand these stages of the music, and get a firm foundation in that. Then that helps you to create your own language.”

Now’s the time

If Another Country is a new chapter in her own musical journey, does Wilson see a similar page turning in the history of music industry? Are there, for instance, more women working in the business? More women engineers, managers, and publicists as well as musicians?

“Oh, yeah! I think that is happening,” confirms Wilson. “It’s almost as if we’ve reached an impasse through the old paradigm.”

“And so there’s something women bring to the table when they enter,” she continues. “They are able to adjust, correct, and inspire, you know? That’s just part of being a woman, that natural connection to earth and nature. It’s a great thing.”

Is it a cause for optimism when it comes to music and how one can survive as a professional musician?

“Absolutely,” says Wilson. “I think now’s a great time to be a musician. It’s very challenging! But it is a great time to be a musician and to be a woman who’s a musician.”

(Joey Fauerso, Bedroom Paintings, 2024, four-channel video; photo courtesy of David Shelton Gallery.)

First, hello to my new subscribers! I appreciate the support, and hope you find time to explore and enjoy Night and Day.

Last February, in a post titled “Meet the Gallerists,” I heralded the start of a series of in-depth interviews I had planned with six very different Houston gallerists. Inspired in part by The Art Dealers, a compilation published in 1984 of first-person narratives by 32 New York City-based art dealers, the series seeks to pull the veil back on a profession that few people outside of the hermetic world of galleries and museums understand. What I found, over the course of six interviews, which are all available to read for free on the Texas art website Glasstire, is that each gallerist brings a totally unique perspective and life experience to their work, and is as singular as any of the artists they represent.

I thought I’d share links to all of the interviews here, in one place, so that those who are interested in sampling the variety of histories, opinions, and, let’s not forget art, can bookmark this post as a reference. (And yes, there will be a round two, beginning in September.) I’ve also included the link to my conversation with Kerry Inman, which led to me pitching the series to Glasstire’s editor.

Representing the Work: A Conversation with Kerry Inman

“It is an equal partnership. I try really hard to help the artist realize that they have the power. Because a lot of times, artists think, ‘Oh, the gallery has the power.’ But no, it’s the artists who have the power. I work for the artist.”

No Dabbling: A Conversation with Laura Rathe

“The majority of the people I work with, not just in Texas but across the world, collect because of the way art changes their lives. When they put a work of art in their home and look at it, it’s like a dream come true. They get a certain kind of energy from it. It’s an extension of — and this sounds a little out there — a persona they would like to have.”

Can You Climb a Ladder? A Conversation with Yvonne Garcia

“When an artist comes in with their portfolio and asks if they can show me their work, the first thing I’ll ask them is, would your artwork work in this gallery? We advise them to take the time to look at all the galleries. Walk in, or look online, and whichever gallery resonates with what you are doing, reach out to them and set up an appointment. Don’t just walk in. We want to spend time with you and not have to rush through a meeting, because we may miss something.”

You Can’t Drive It; You Can Only Look At It: A Conversation with Heidi Vaughan

“What I love about art is that you can’t live in it. You can’t sail it. You can’t drive it. All you can do is look at it. And I love that someone is willing to spend money, sometimes large amounts of money, to just look at a work of art.”

Stories the Art Tells: A Conversation with Carla Bisong

“I started by showing emerging artists, and artists who have never partnered with a gallery before are often so excited to be represented that they may be afraid to ask, ‘What does this partnership look like?’ They need to be able to speak up and have everything written in an agreement or a contract. If the artist or the gallerist doesn’t want to put anything in writing, that’s a red flag.”

Avoiding the Arms Race: A Conversation with Robert McClain

“For me, the most interesting collections are collections that reflect a certain aesthetic or personal interest. So yes, you could be interested in a Warhol, but then you could also be interested in a Mark Flood. That makes for a more interesting collection. A good collection isn’t about who spent the most money or who bought the trendy names. Far from it.”

The Art of Cultural Exchange: A Conversation with David Shelton

“There’s a deep, embedded history of all forms of art and culture in Houston, and not everyone is aware of it, even people who grew up here. Houston is a music city, with many types of music. It’s a recording city. It is a dance city. It is a theater city. It is a visual arts city. Many people are not aware of the depth of this.”

(The Wheel Workers. L to R: Craig Wilkins, Kevin Radomski, Steven Higginbotham, Zeek Garcia, and Erin Rodgers.)

Welcome to a new “Blindfold Test” for Night and Day with Houston singer, guitarist, and musical director of The Wheel Workers, Steven Higginbotham.

Originated by Downbeat magazine, a “blindfold test” is a listening test that challenges the featured artist to identify and discuss the music and musicians performing on selected recordings. No information is given to the artist in advance of the test.

One of the cool things about being a music journalist is the opportunity to follow and write about the creative trajectory of bands I especially admire. Houston-based indie psychedelic grunge rockers The Wheel Workers are one such band. The Wheel Workers came on my radar in 2023, but their history dates back to the early 2000s, when the group was a communal quintet of hyper-creative 20-somethings, whose members included singer and multi-instrumentalist Steven Higginbotham, guitarist and singer Chris Maness, drummer and percussionist Nathan Maness, bassist Giuseppe Ponti, and guitarist Chad Fontenot. The band broke up in 2006, leaving behind an unfinished sophomore album, One More Thing to Say, which has been partially rerecorded by Higginbotham, with new contributions from Nathan Maness and Guiseppe, and guests legendary recording engineer and producer Dan Workman (ZZ Top, Lyle Lovett, Beyoncé), and vocalist Alli Villines. The first single from the album, “Spreading the Fire,” is available to stream. The second single from the album, “One More Thing to Say,” drops August 13th, and The Wheel Workers, which includes guitarist and keyboardist Craig Wilkins, keyboardist and singer Erin Rogers, bassist Zack Garcia, and drummer Kevin Radomski, perform at Black Magic Social Club on August 15.

(The Wheel Workers, circa 2000/2001; photo by Evan Kolvoord.)

Ahead of the release of their 2023 album Harbor, in an article I wrote for Houston CityBook and described the music of The Wheel Workers as “a kaleidoscopic blend of soaring melodic hooks, alternately chiming and grungy guitars, spiraling keyboard patterns, and noisy synth squiggles and squalls.” That’s still pretty accurate, although with a catalogue that spans over two decades and features more than 15 contributing members, the musical and emotional range of The Wheel Workers is expansive, to say the least. For me, the band harkens back to the days when I followed bands that released several albums over the course of their careers, each different from the last.

(“Spreading the Fire” single artwork by T Lavois.)

In addition to being The Wheel Workers musical director, Higginbotham holds down a day job as an attorney, doing business litigation and rewarding pro bono work, including working with Kids in Need of Defense (KIND) to ensure unaccompanied and separated children who have been forced to migrate have access to the legal protection they need to navigate complex immigration, asylum, and child protection systems.

For this “blindfold test,” I admit I threw Steven several carefully curated curves, although each selection connects to and resonates with his and The Wheel Workers’ history. I also chose several “covers,” which weren’t intentional, but ended up providing a through-line across the disparate tracks, and Steven appreciated the deeper dive.

One More Thing to Say will be available for purchase in digital and vinyl form online and in some local stores in mid-October 2026.

(Scroll down for a Spotify playlist of the following tracks.)

Bubble Puppy

“Hot Smoke and Sassafras” by Bubble Puppy (from A Gathering of Promises, 1969, International Artists), Rod Prince, guitar, vocals; Roy Cox, bass, vocals; Todd Potter, guitar, vocals; David Fore, drums, vocals.

Steven Higginbotham: I’m blanking on this one! Although that word, “Sassafras,” rings a bell.

Chris Becker: This is Bubble Puppy. I was rereading House of Hits: The Story of Houston’s Gold Star/SugarHill Recording Studios, and there’s a whole chapter that argues the roots of psychedelic rock are in Houston, not San Francisco. Bubble Puppy was one of those groundbreaking bands that recorded at Gold Star, along with legendary experimental bands the 13^th Floor Elevators and Red Krayola.

The words “psychedelic” and “psych-rock” are often used in the press to describe The Wheel Workers.

SH: I would say this record coming out in October is probably our most psychedelic. It comes from a time when we were all living together, improvising and jamming all the time, and recording everything. We were definitely in a very psychedelic place at the time. We were experimenting in all kinds of ways! We even put out a record, called How to Fly a Washing Machine, that was entirely in-the-moment improvisations.

CB: It seems like a lot of Wheel Workers material provides an opportunity to just go off and improvise. Is that something you explore these days onstage?

SH: Not as much. There are moments where that happens, and over time, the songs definitely evolve. But it’s not as present in the current version of the band as it was in the earlier version of the band. Back in the old days, there was a lot of spontaneous, cooperative music creation, whereas more recently, I figure it out in the studio, and then we play (the music) live.

It’s definitely a different time in your life when you’re in your 40s versus your 20s. I think everybody felt that was an important time in their lives, musically. It’s very intense; it’s a time when a lot of trappings and responsibilities of adulthood have not latched on. (laughs) So you can really make music front and center in a way that seems a lot more difficult later in life. It’s harder to get a bunch of 40-year-olds together for practice, as opposed to when we were in our 20s, and could do that every night!

I’m really happy with the way the songs turned out. I also appreciate the understanding of the current lineup of the band; Craig Wilkins contributed some synthesizer lines; Erin Rogers contributed some vocal harmonies and took some of the songs into a new place.

The Breeders

“Happiness is a Warm Gun” by The Breeders (from Pod, 1990, 4AD, Elektra), Kim Deal, lead vocals, rhythm guitar; Kelley Deal, lead guitar, backing vocals; Josephine Wiggs, bass.; Britt Walford (credited as Shannon Doughton), drums.

SH: (Immediately) The Beatles. “Happiness is a Warm Gun.” The Breeders version! I love the Breeders.

CB: I wanted to grab something from this era, the 90s, which is getting a lot of attention now. So much incredible music was happening then, and the music industry was very different. You could make money selling albums, which fed a lot of creativity. Was that decade a formative time for you as a musician and songwriter?

SH: Oh, absolutely. That’s music of my youth, and the music that brought me into this genre. I started with piano and violin lessons and was in the classical music world for a while. But I was corrupted by rock and roll and 90s music. That’s what made me want to write my own music and not necessarily perform other composers. So, I picked up the guitar and learned Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Pixies songs.

I think the early 90s explosion alternative explosion was a really important time in music. Certainly, for me it was. When I play shows now, I feel like in a lot of the clubs the ethos still feels very 90s, in a lot of ways. But as you said, a lot of stuff has changed. It’s much harder to make a living. Basically, music is free, online. Even if you’re a professional and prominent musician, you’re not going to make a lot of money. It’s a very different world.

Houston’s A.S.S

“Cranes in the Sky” by Houston’s A.S.S. (from Songs from Houston Covers: Volume 3), Glitter Milk Records, 2025), performed by Cathy Power, Erin Rodgers, Anthony Barilla, Chris Bakos, and Jenny Zuniga.

SH: (As soon as the vocal starts) Oh, wait! Wait! This one is Erin Rogers, right? As soon as her voice comes in, it’s so distinctive. Forgive me, but I can’t name the song . . .

CB: I love her voice. And I love the way she sings this tune. It’s a Solange tune, “Cranes in the Sky.”

Erin seems to be one of the secret weapons in The Wheel Workers.

SH: For sure! She is extremely talented and has a bunch of projects. And that’s one of them. At our next show, August 15, when we’re releasing the next single, “One More Thing to Say,” one of Erin’s bands, Klono Princess, will open for us. It’s more of a raw, punk rock project.

Houston’s A.S.S. (Houston’s Accordion Superstars) is great. They do all covers, in very original ways. And Erin has a very great and unique voice.

CB: Is Erin an attorney as well?

SH: She’s an entertainment law attorney. So, I turn to her on occasion. She’s brilliant as an attorney and as a musician and songwriter and adds a super cool dimension to the band.

One of the songs on the new record that she helped evolve is “Distractions.” This was a song I had for decades. It’s one of the earliest songs in the project. She just came up with this counterpoint melody that’s so beautiful and elevates the song in such a cool way. On another song, “Half Asleep,” she added a clarinet. She’ll always think of something I never would have thought of myself.

Erin connected us to T Lavois, who has done several music videos for us. One of which is going to come out when we release “One More Thing to Say.” It’s a brilliant hybrid of animation and live footage. They also did all of the artwork for the album and the singles. It’s been a really cool journey working with T on these projects.

Another important person I met through Erin is Alli Villines, who is my vocal coach. I don’t know if we talked about this, but in 2019, I fractured my larynx doing martial arts. I did some speech therapy, and then some lessons with Alli, and that’s really helped a lot. I honestly think I’m a better singer than I was before the injury. She also sings on a number of songs on the new album.

Money Chicha

“Carnaval de Jujuy” by Money Chicha (from Onda Esotérica, 2025, Vampisoul).

SH: (After a couple of minutes) I don’t know!

CB: This is Money Chicha. I learned about this band from a post on The Wheel Workers’ Instagram feed.

SH: That’s one of the bands Guiseppe was talking about, right? I think he pulled out three or four records, and that was the one I didn’t know! (laughs) Giuseppe has a pretty good record collection. It’s super cool stuff. It’s got a 60s, California vibe, with some Latin rhythms.

CB: The band is based in Austin. Is there a lot of creative exchange among musicians between Austin and Houston, and opportunities to collaborate and support each other?

SH: I think so. Maybe it’s become more collaborative than it used to be, because Austin has become so expensive. I know Erin, for example, was in a cover band called Poon. Are you familiar with the band Ween?

CB: Yes.

SH: Well, Poon was an Austin-based, all-female cover band, doing Ween songs exclusively. (laughter) They’re really great! They’re not as active as they used to be. I think Ween heard about Poon and invited them to play at one of their parties.

Two of the musicians we worked on from the original lineup, Giuseppe and Nathan, still live in Austin. So I’m going back and forth a lot. That’s been really cool. We were living together in Austin, so it’s nice to get back up there and play. And The Wheel Workers have played Austin regularly. It’s not the easiest town to book, because there are a ton of musicians and really great bands. But we played a single release recently at Nomad Bar, and it was a lot of fun, and we had a good turnout.

Culturcide

“They Aren’t the World” by Culturcide (from Tacky Souvenirs of Pre-Revolutionary America, 1986), performed by Perry Webb, Dan Workman, and Ralf Armin.

SH: Sounds to me like a soundtrack, maybe?

CB: Well, just wait . . . (after the first verse and some laughter) This is a project featuring Dan Workman called Culturcide. They grabbed existing recordings of music, in this case, “We Are the World,” and sang and did their own thing over it. And like Negativland, they got into a lot of legal trouble as a result. This is a track that made me laugh so hard I fell out of my chair, but I haven’t been able to listen to it in its entirety. It possesses both of those qualities.

SH: I’m sure Dan would be pleased to hear that.

CB: Dan has been an important part of The Wheel Workers for a long time, right?

SH: Yes. When the first iteration of The Wheel Workers ended, I came back to Houston and did my own thing for a while, including a solo record, Unite, under The Wheel Workers’ name. I heard of a new label in Houston called ZenHill Records (founded by Dan Workman and Filmmaker W. Ross Wells). I sent a few tracks to them, and Dan said some really nice things about the music on social media. I reached out to him, and that was the beginning of a long musical collaboration and friendship. We’ve done four records together (Past to Present, Citizens, Post Truth, and Harbor) and experienced a close, personal journey. Our lives paralleled in a lot of ways. Dan moved from music production, and now, he’s a therapist. I moved from being a teacher to being an attorney, and those transitions happened for us at almost exactly the same time.

He contributed enormously to how those records sound and turned out. He also helped keep me sane enough to complete the records. He definitely got his preparatory work for his future role as a therapist. I don’t think I was terrible, but I had some ups and downs, and he was there for me, and we became really good friends.

We didn’t work with Dan on the most recent record, and part of that is because the journey came to a natural conclusion. But I’m sure, going forward, we will work together again in some capacity.

CB: The Culturcide track kind of encapsulates the punk era as it was in Houston in the 80s. That punk attitude, when you just say what you feel, unfiltered, and if you don’t like it, deal with it, is that a part of The Wheel Workers’ ethos?

SH: I used to teach History and Government to High School students, and I do think a lot about politics, and have woven those thoughts into songs. A lot of the musicians I really respect and have been influenced by are known for their politics and have supported various liberal, left-leaning political causes. I think there’s a place for that. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but I think it’s an entirely valid thing to do. What often motivates me to write lyrics is the injustices in the world, the absurdity of our political leadership, and how much better things should be. So yes, I often think about those things, and that filters into my lyrics, especially if the song is up-tempo and angry. Punk was a big influence on that.

CB: I believe just the act of creativity is political, and that freedom of expression is what’s so threatening to the status quo and totalitarian regimes.

SH: Oh, for sure! Even when there isn’t an explicit manifesto in the lyrics, the act of expressing raw, unfiltered emotion, without the constraints of polite society or the norms that help people advance in a totalitarian society, is itself an ethical stance. Those norms are fundamentally at odds with the ethos of rock music at its best.

Spoon

“I Can’t Give Everything Away” by Spoon (2023, Headz under exclusive license to Matador Records), Britt Daniel, vocals, guitar; Alex Fischel, piano.)

CB: Final track. I’ll give you a hint. It’s another cover!

SH: Two layers deep!

CB: That’s it. I was thinking deeply when selecting these tracks.

SH: I recognize the voice . . . it’s on the tip of my tongue.

CB: This is Britt Daniel and Alex Fischel of the Austin-based band Spoon doing David Bowie’s “I Can’t Give Everything Away” from Blackstar.

SH: I’m definitely aware of Spoon, and have listened to them off and on, though not as much lately. I have a lot of respect for their music. I haven’t heard this particular track.

CB: There’s a video of you on YouTube singing a song called “Be Yourself” and accompanying yourself on ukulele. I love hearing you in this context, and I wanted to play something “unplugged,” for lack of a better word. Are there similar “unplugged” tracks in The Wheel Workers’ recorded repertoire?

SH: There are a number of more acoustic-oriented songs, and on our next record, there will be a few of those tracks. I have a few other ukulele songs and a bunch of ideas on acoustic guitar. But because we are a rock band, and because we’re playing clubs, sometimes the songs that would work acoustic, at home, don’t necessarily lend themselves to being played in a rock venue. (laughs) People are like, “Okay, time to catch up on our conversation, and get a beer, and go to the bathroom.” There’s a little bit of an energy push from the crowd to rock. So, we’ve tended lately to respond to that, because we like it too! I like to get nice and loud.

(Lynn Wright; photo by Tobias Humble.)

Welcome to a new “Blindfold Test” for Night and Day with Berlin-based guitarist and composer Lynn Wright.

Originated by Downbeat magazine, a “blindfold test” is a listening test that challenges the featured artist to identify and discuss the music and musicians performing on selected recordings. No information is given to the artist in advance of the test.

I met guitarist and composer Lynn Wright many years ago in New Orleans at a friend’s gig at the Howlin’ Wolf. We clicked immediately, and struck up a conversation about music, and his current gig as lead guitarist for singer, showman, and shaman James Hall, who had been recently signed to Geffen Records, and would release his major label debut in 1996. (James Hall’s performances with Lynn, bassist Grant Curry, and drummer Sterling Roig were explosive, and some of my favorite shows I experienced while living in the Crescent City.) Lynn and I bonded over our mutual enthusiasm for experimental rock, forward-thinking jazz, and then-burgeoning styles of electronic music, especially jungle (a.k.a. drum and bass) and trip-hop. When he wasn’t on the road touring, we remained in touch by mail (this was pre-Internet, kids) and traded mixtapes (cassettes) of music we each were discovering and wanted to share.

Eventually, Lynn and I each relocated to New York City. Lynn joined two Brooklyn-cased bands, Bee and Flower, led by bassist and singer Dana Schecter, and the bilingual indie-rock band Cordero. Meanwhile, we collaborated in the recording studio (Lynn plays guitar on my albums 200 Birds and Saints & Devils) and in live, completely improvised performances with multi-nstrumentalist Paul Watson (Sparklehorse, Othotonics, Michael Hurley), trumpeter Lewis “Flip” Barnes (William Parker Quartet, Burnt Sugar), and me on laptop doing my best to complement the sounds coming from such imaginative and skilled musicians. In 2010, I moved to Houston, and in 2022, Lynn relocated to Berlin. It’s a testament to Lynn’s talent and our friendship that we have remained close and continue to work on music together long-distance.

Lynn’s first solo album, Before The Sinking Plains, a collection of atmospheric and dramatic instrumentals featuring layered guitars, synths, and wordless vocals, will be released on September 4, 2026, on the Berlin-based label Miasmah Recordings. In the years leading up to the album, Lynn formed his song project And The Wiremen, featuring an array of stellar New York and Berlin-based musicians; scored music for the dance theater company Racoco Productions; and toured as guitarist and lap steel player for the majestic, doom-metal duo Insect Ark. He has also worked as a musician, music editor, and assistant composer with violinist Simon Goff on several acclaimed film and television projects.

In all the years’ve known Lynn, he has never stopped exploring and evolving as a musician. Guitar Player magazine described Lynn’s playing as a combination of “sizzling treble tones, an acidic, razor-edged attack, and a healthy eclecticism that embraces psychedelic R&B, blues-infused punk and neo-roots balladry.” That’s pretty accurate, although it leaves out the influence of Latin and pan-African musical styles on his playing. For this “blindfold test,” I rewound the tape a bit in order to unpack some of Lynn’s musical roots, consider the passage of time, and have a few laughs in the process.

(Scroll down for a Spotify playlist of the following tracks.)

(Tom Verlaine at Bowery Ballroom; photo by P Squared.)

Tom Verlaine

“Those Harbor Lights” by Tom Verlaine (from Warm and Cool, 1992, Rykodisc), Tom Verlaine, guitars; Patrick A. Derivaz, bass; Billy Ficca, drums.

Lynn Wright: (Immediately) Is this the Tom Verlaine Warm and Cool album?

Chris Becker: Yes!

LW: Oh, man. When this album came out, I was so happy. When I was younger, and heard Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd playing in Television, it was like, here’s someone in the realm of what would become “punk,” but who was really playing the guitar, and in a fairly sophisticated way, as far as scales and notes go. But he was playing things I could figure out. I really wasn’t a huge fan of Verlaine’s solo albums, but then Warm and Cool came out, and it sounded to me like a really, really good soundtrack. That twang reminds me of 60s film soundtracks. This came out when I was living in New Orleans. I remember this and Tom Waits’ Bone Machine. You know me, I like albums that aren’t genre-specific.

CB: Tell me about your album Before the Sinking Plains, which comes out in September. Is it all instrumentals?

LW: It is, but you might think it’s not. Originally, I was going to make two extended pieces that were more ambient. I was using a lot of heavily treated guitars and minimal synthesizers, but I started layering vocals, without any lyrics. Since some of the tracks have very song-like structures, you might assume you are hearing words, but there are none.

When I was making this new record, I thought about making a synth record. But I said, no, I’m doing to stick to my voice. I’ll make the electronic sounds with the guitar, and when I think a synth is needed, I’ll use a synth. Really, just with the right hand, you can manipulate the sound of the guitar so much. And there are rhythmic things I can do with a guitar that I can’t do with a modular synth.

I made the record, and then I forgot about it for a couple of years. There’s a label here in Berlin: Miasmah Recordings and its sister label Sonic Pieces, which is more from the indie-classical world. Miasmah is a little harder to define. One day, I was engineering the composer Simon Goff’s record for Sonic Pieces, recording viola in an old water storage system, so we could use all of the tunnels as live reverbs and delays. The owner of Miasmah came by, and Simon told him, “You should hear Lynn’s record.” I sent it to them, and they thought it would be great for Miasmah. So, I rediscovered this record that I thought would never come out.

Marc Ribot Y Los Cubanos Postizos

“Las lomas de New Jersey” by Marc Ribot with Los Cubanos Postizos (from ¡Muy Divertido!, 2000, Atlantic), Marc Ribot, guitars, vocal; Anthony Coleman, keyboards; Brad Jones, bass, twelve string guitar; E.J. Rodriguez, congas, percussion, vocals; Roberto Rodriguez, drums, timbales, timpani, percussion.

LW: Is this Ribot?

CB: Yep! “The Hills of New Jersey” performed by Marc Ribot y Los Cubanos Postizos.

LW: Did you and I see this band live in New York?

CB: I never saw Los Cubanos Postizos. I did see Ribot’s band, the Rootless Cosmopolitans, in Columbus, Ohio, at a club called Stache’s. It was a small crowd, but just a fantastic show. At the time, I was too shy to go up afterwards and say, “Thanks for coming to Columbus!” Did you ever hear Los Cubanos Postizos live?

LW: Yes. It was at Irving Plaza. They opened for a band called Jonathan Fire*Eater, and it was so good. And I saw them again, I think at Tonic. I always related to Ribot’s guitar playing. His approach was something that made sense to me. He’s not an incredibly fast player, and neither am I. I’m not a shredder. Hearing Ribot, I thought, “I can walk through that door.” Whereas with other guitarists, I might admire their playing but couldn’t quite hear myself going into their world.

CB: When did the clave become a part of your musical vocabulary? If I had to guess, I’d say it was when you played with Ani Cordero’s band Cordero. But you were into Latin music before then, right?

LW: Playing with Ani Cordero is what really got me into Latin music. Originally, Ani was making straight-ahead post-punk, indie music. But then, being Puerto Rican, she started incorporating more and more Latin elements, and I just started diving into it. And weirdly, around that time, I ended up getting a couple of job writing cues for ESPN where they wanted Salsa tunes. I started working with musicians from Colombia and across South America, and I just started asking a lot of questions, figuring it out, and playing the music.

(David Hidalgo and Louie Pérez; photo by Anna Webber.)

Latin Playboys

“Ironsides” by Latin Playboys (from Dose, 1999, Atlantic), performed by David Hidalgo, Louie Perez, Mitchell Froom, and Tchad Blake.

LW: (As soon as the sound of the pickup truck starts up) Latin Playboys?

CB: You’re good!

LW: Latin Playboys only did one tour. They played Tramps, and I missed it! I don’t know where I was. A friend has a recording of them playing a club in L.A., and when they did this song, that sample of the truck was so massive! It really was like this Dada performance. You hear the truck, and then guitars creep in – and it takes a minute for the music to get as loud as the truck. And then Louie gets up and tells the story.

CB: I remember Cordero toured with Los Lobos.

LW: It was a strange thing, because Ani’s music fell between genres, especially with the second record. Sometimes we’d be out with people you would expect from the “indie” scene -- I don’t know what else to call it. But then, we played with Calexico and some Latin pop bands. We played for a week opening for Los Lobos around the Midwest and Northeast, and they were a mind-blowing band live. I mean, David Hildago has always amazed me. He comes from this band that everyone associates with this kind of straight-ahead sound, and then he made Houndog (with Mike Halby), which is one of the most lo-fi, strange blues records you’ve ever heard. He’s also played duets with Ribot.

Between the late 90s and the mid-aughts, there were a lot of people delving into more experimental takes on music from Mexico, South America, and the Caribbean. I was glad to be a part of that.

(John Mooney; photo by Masahiro Sumori.)

John Mooney

“Preachin’ Blues” by John Mooney (from Son & Moon, 2014, Fatback Records), John Mooney, vocal, national steel guitar.

LW: (listens for about 30 seconds) How old is this?

CB: It’s relatively new. Some singing is gonna come in . . .

LW: I don’t know!

CB: Here’s a hint: New Orleans!

LW: My mind is going blank . . .

CB: This is John Mooney.

LW: I should have known! When I first saw Mooney play in a club, he looked like he could have been the bouncer. He’s a big dude and an intense-looking guy. And then he started playing, and I thought, “Oh, yeah! This is what everyone’s talking about.”

It’s cool you’re playing this, because it’s music I was digging into when I was working with you. In recent years, working on film scores, it’s all been a lot more ambient and textural. My album has a lot of that on it. But I’ve been playing with another guitar player recently, and we’re going to try and come up with an album of things like this, things that are just a bit more raw.

CB: I still hear that rawness in your music, in your songs, the ambient tracks, and the soundtracks. I hear how you’ve progressed, and it’s all rooted in the guitar, your ears, and experience. You didn’t grow up in front of a screen, making music on the computer.

LW: No, I didn’t. As you know, I really learned to be a musician from playing 100, 200, or 250 shows a year. There were a number of years where I was just on the road. I like that live communication that happens between people. I love getting on a stage with people and not knowing what’s going to happen. It happens in the moment, and everyone in the room is a part of it.

(Insect Ark; photo by e.lu.lu.)

Insect Ark

“The Frozen Lake” by Insect Ark (from Raw Blood Singing, 2024, CBS Records), Dana Schechter, bass, vocals, lap steel guitar, synthesizers, piano; Tim Wyskida, drums, percussion, backing vocals.

LW: (Immediately) Of course, I recognize this. It’s Dana Schecter and her project Insect Ark. We just did a show here in Berlin, and we have three shows coming up in June.

It’s always interesting playing with Dana, and with Insect Ark in particular. On the records, she plays everything, and the music is very specifically arranged. There are a few moments where you can improvise. But it’s just lap steel, with the heaviest strings you have ever seen, through some quite interesting effects, but mostly just played really loud through two amps. I also play guitar on some songs. The drummer in Insect Ark, Tim Wyskida, is incredible.

I’ve been playing with Dana on and off for a long time. It’s really nice to do something different and just show up and be in a world I’ve been in, but haven’t been in consistently. People may call it “metal,” but I wouldn’t call what Insect Ark does “metal.” I don’t even know what these genres mean. I was looking up sub-genres of metal when I first started playing with Insect Ark, and was like, you gotta be kidding me . . .

CB: There are billions of them.

LW: It’s like electronic music. Or sub-genres of jazz.

CB: When playing live with Insect Ark, do you take moments to stretch out and go into Sonic Youth or Swans territory with improvising and noise?

LW: When we first started playing, not as much. There are synths on the album, and the thing about touring these days, taking somebody out to play a few synth parts isn’t feasible, financially. So, Tim has a Roland pad and triggers the synths. Originally, on the first gig, we were being rigid, and everyone was listening to in-ear monitors and a click. One of our friends, I think it was Simon, asked, “Why are you doing that? You can all play.” So slowly we moved away from the click. We do stretch out at points. There’s a segue we’re doing that’s a few minutes long, where there are a couple of cues, but otherwise, completely improvised.

I went to see Dana on the last tour with Swans. Playing that music is like training for a marathon every night.

CB: When I saw Swans here in Houston at White Oak Music Hall, I was wearing earplugs and could feel the music hitting my chest.

LW: I saw the last show with their current lineup here in Berlin, and it was incredible. It was loud, but it was also the most dynamic show I’d ever seen them do. They did everything they could do really well. I lost track of time, and at the end, I realized they’d played for three hours.

CB: I had the same experience.

LW: Life is in snippets now, and it was such a nice experience to be with a room full of people who were not only willing to stay for three hours but wanted to be there, hearing music

(Scott Walker; photo by Jake Walters.)

Scott Walker

“Finale” by Scott Walker (from The Childhood of a Leader, 2016, 4AD).

LW: I think I’ve heard this, but I can’t remember where.

CB: This is Scott Walker.

LW: I was going to say that, but then I thought, “Well, I don’t want to stick my head out …” It definitely sounds like the Scott Walker of the 90s and 2000s.

CB: It’s from the soundtrack to The Childhood of a Leader. It’s a dark film, and Walker’s soundtrack is just brutal. Since relocating to Berlin, you’ve done a fair amount of film and television music, correct?

LW: Yes. A lot of times on film and television scores, I work as an editor or a second or “sub-composer.” A composer will write the music and then ask me, “Can you take the theme and edit elements of it into these two other scenes?” Since I work with Simon, who is a string player, it’s been a lot more about orchestral writing.

I relate to this sort of contrast and how Walker is making music here. Even if I don’t make music that sounds like this, it reminds me of how I work with a lot of things. There’s going to be something generated from a non-musical sound or extended techniques, but I’m going to somehow lean toward tradition.

1. French photographers and more at Catherine Couturier Gallery

(Robert Doisneau, La Dame Indignée, 1948, gelatin silver print.)

Thirty Years: The Legacy of John Cleary Gallery, on view through September 5, 2026, at Catherine Couturier Gallery, pays tribute to the gallery’s original owner, John Cleary, who in 1996 founded what is Houston’s longest-running fine art photography gallery. (John Cleary brought on Catherine Couturier as Gallery Manager in 1999, and Couturier purchased the gallery after Cleary passed in 2008.) Among the selections of French street photography on display are several gelatin silver prints by the legendary Robert Doisneau, including Le Manège de Monsieur Barré (1955), a haunting image of a temporarily abandoned carousel that seems to be materializing (or disappearing?) in the mists of a rainstorm. It is the first photograph Cleary purchased and was included in his gallery’s inaugural show. (Photos by Henri Cartier-Bresson and André Kertész are also featured in the current exhibit.)

For me, Doisneau’s La Dame Indignée complements the spirit of this Substack, with its combination of guerilla-styled photography, good humor, and a nod toward the avant-garde. Is this Parisian lady, wrapped up in several layers of black, truly indignant or just surprised? (Maybe she recognizes the woman in the painting?) Coming up on her right is a woman captured as a blur movement, whose raised eyebrows belie a benign facial expression we are still able to discern. While “the blur” may simply be a byproduct of the technology of the time, it introduces an unexpected layer of visual poetry to the composition, a moment captured in the blink of an eye, or the flash of a camera bulb.

2. 42 at David Shelton Gallery

(Graham Collins, 2 cups flour, 4 tsp baking powder, 1/2 tsp baking soda, 1/2 tsp salt, 1/4 cup sugar, 1 1/2 cups milk, 4 tbs butter, 2 eggs, 2026, casein on hemp canvas laid on ceramic.)

Speaking of humor, 42 is the refreshingly unpretentious title for a group exhibit of a diverse selection of contemporary artists whose work hovers within the realms of “abstraction,” however you might define that word. 42 is currently on view at David Shelton Gallery through August 22, 2026, and was curated by Houston-based artists Dana Frankfort and Jeremy Deprez. In Douglas Adams’s book, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the number 42 is revealed as the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything. The problem is, no one knows what the question was in the first place. With that conundrum in mind, if you’ve ever looked at and been moved by a so-called “abstract” painting, then found yourself unable to articulate why you were moved, this show is for you.

The artists in 42 include Natasha Bowdoin, Graham Collins, Mike Cloud, Chie Fueki, Harriet Korman, Cameron Martin, Marc Schepens, Jane Swavely, and Richard Tinkler. The trick here for the non-artist is to approach the installation with an open mind and time to just relax, look, and then look again. You have to try to take it all in, though that prospect never feels overwhelming.

At first glance, I didn’t feel much looking at Swavely’s Not Titled. At first glance, it looked incomplete to me. But then I looked again, and more closely at the hallucinatory haze of those white, grey, and purple brushstrokes. I felt a sense of becoming unmoored from whatever it is we collectively agree as tangible and real, and then accepting, after some resistance, the pull toward the inevitable, the unknown. Not to be morbid, but I was reminded of my own mortality.

(Jane Swavely, Not Titled, 2024, oil on canvas.)

And that was just one painting. Kudos to Shelton and his collaborators for realizing such an intriguing and sensual show that opens up new ways of seeing.

3. A Beautiful Game: Every Match Leaves a Mark at Mitochondria Gallery

(Terence Maluleke, Towards Glory, 2026, acrylic on canvas.)

To commemorate this year’s FIFA World Cup and Houston’s participation as a host city, Mitochondria Gallery has curated a vibrant and provocative selection of paintings, sculptures, and mixed media works by talented artists from across the African continent for A Beautiful Game: Every Match Leaves a Mark, on view to the public through July 19. The subject matter is consistent, but the range of styles and degree of experimentation are what captured my attention during a walkthrough led by gallery co-owner Temi Etebu. The exhibition includes works by Terence Ntsako Maluleke, Charles Middleton, Guy Stanley Philoche, Corey Ramon Gibson, Alpha Odhiambo, Bradley Theodore, Sunday Ernest Nnamal, and Sphephelo Mnguni. Much of the art on view was created specifically for this show.

Born in Soweto, South Africa, Maluleke’s distinctive, sculptural style of portraiture and, as in Towards Glory, conveying motion, draws on his skills as a painter and as an animator for Walt Disney Animation Studios, Sony Pictures Animation, and Netflix. Looking at his paintings, so firmly rooted in and a reflection of contemporary life, you are reminded how profoundly Africa influenced the advent of cubism, expressionism, and the Western Avant-Garde.

(Alpha Odhiambo, Balancing Boy, 2026, mixed media on vinyl mesh.)

Meanwhile, Alpha Odhiambo, a self-taught artist based in Nairobi, Kenya, paints in thick layers on vinyl mesh, through which light and whatever is behind the work is visible. In Balancing Boy, the stretcher and wire, visible through the mesh, are components to the dream-like composition of a boy acrobatically balanced upside down and atop a soccer ball on the head of another young man. The outstretched arms, the thinly branched tree, and the hard angle of the wooden stretcher may allude to sacrifice, martyrdom, and redemption. Meanwhile, the fencing, which appears often in Odhiambo’s art, reminds me of the famous line in Michael Ondaatje’s book The English Patient: “We are the real countries, not the boundaries drawn on maps with the names of powerful men.”

+ Apollo Africa

Last May, while visiting New York, I walked into McNally Jackson Books, and saw Sundiata: An Epic of Old Mali on display as one of the store’s staff recommendations. After reading the introduction, I knew I had to add it to my library. Having explored the Africanist concept of sound (and the voice) as a primary means for storytelling and historical preservation while composing a 16-minute soundscape inspired by artist David McGee’s survey The Griot and the Nightingale, I was very curious to read and experience, in print, this epic story of Sundiata, founder of the empire of Mali.

Sundiata is published by Apollo Africa, an imprint of Black Star Books and Head of Zeus that has been reissuing titles from the African Writers Series, which was launched in 1962 with the publication of Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, Cyprian Ekwensi’s Burning Grass, and Kenneth Kaunda’s Zambia Shall Be Free. Achebe was editorial advisor for the original series. Reading Sundiata inspired me to explore other titles published by Apollo Africa, all of which are available to order from the Bloomsbury website.

Right now, I’m about halfway through Jamal Mahjoub’s Wings of Dust, which was first published in the African Writers series in 1994. It is a “fictionalized memoir” that explores the adventures and misadventures of several North African-born students who have coe to England in the aftermath of World War II for an Oxford University education that might be applied in the creation of an independent Sudan. (Although Sudan is not named in the book, Mahjoub does describe Wings of Dust as “. . . the story of the formation of the modern republic of Sudan. . . told through the personal experiences of the generation which brought it to life.”) The book provides another key to understanding the complex and troubled history of Africa’s third largest country, a land currently experiencing an unimaginable degree of violence, and that remains, in Mahjoub’s words, “an enigma” for much of the West.

(Polina Porras Sivolobova performing Viva La Vida in front of the church of Santo Domingo in Oaxaca, Mexico, 2014.)

You could describe multidisciplinary artist Polina Porras Sivolobova as a performer, a painter, and an educator, and still fall short in covering the range of her practice. Born in Moscow in 1973, Sivolobova’s work moves between live, site-specific, durational performances and two- and three-dimensional art, including drawings and paintings, collages and assemblages, and photographs and videos. Her work calls to mind the body art of Cuban American artist Ana Mendieta, Serbian conceptual and performance artist Marina Abramović, and the pioneering experimental filmmaker Maya Deren, who, like Sivolobova, was a dancer, and deeply understood and drew inspiration from indigenous cultures and rituals.

Like Abramović and Deren, female archetypes and the unspoken societal expectations women carry are recurring themes in Sivolobova’s work. In Viva La Vida (pictured above), named after Frida Kahlo’s final painting, a still life with watermelons, and performed outside a church in Oaxaca, Mexico, Sivolobova appeared as a Quinceañera – a Mexican Sweet-Sixteen – who transforms herself using milk, honey, and glitter into a “woman of gold.” The dramatic and raucous percussion-driven performance referenced pre-Hispanic sacrificial rituals, the Catholic Eucharist, and the prayers of Saint Dominic of Guzmán, and included choreography, including a sort of folk dance with watermelons, performed by 25 children.

Sivolobova is currently a New York Latin American Art Triennial (NYLAAT) artist-in-residence on Governors Island, where she is developing a new work inspired by the myth of Coyolxauhqui. The residency continues through June 28, 2026, and there are open studios on Saturdays and Sundays, noon to 5 p.m. I met Sivolobova on my most recent trip to New York, and we agreed to make time for an in-depth, extended conversation for Night and Day about her residency and life as a nomadic, multi-ethnic, multidisciplinary artist.

You had an open studio performance on Governor’s Island this past weekend. How did that go?

It went well. I have a studio on Governor’s Island in one of the houses. I converted the studio into a kind of mini theater. That was the first thing I did, because I’m interested in exploring and doing performances within installations. I made an altar, with a chair and lots of fabric around it, and a monitor with a looping video of my past performances. This is something I’ve done previously, reusing and incorporating past performances into new work. I sat in this chair, the monitor was above me, and I was covered with many layers of fabric, different textures and colors, but a lot of pink and red. And I was holding a ball made of Christmas lights. The performance started with me sitting there and singing a song, which is something else I’m exploring — singing and music. I sang a song in Spanish called “La Basurita,” which translates to, and this will sound funny, “the little piece of trash.” (laughs)

So, I sang this song, covered in many layers of fabric, and the song evolved as I removed each layer of fabric. I was also manipulating the bowl of lights as I sang. When I took off the last piece of bright pink fabric, I had a mask on, which was skin colored, so I never fully showed my face.

(Polina Porras Sivolobova in performance at Governor’s Island.)

Is “La Basurita” a folk song?

Yes, it’s a folk song from Northern Mexico. I was surprised to find out it was written by a man, but it’s usually sung by a woman. It’s odd, because the song says, “I’m a little piece of trash . . . the winds carry me from one side to the next . . . I was born crying, and I continue crying.” It all sounds bleak and perhaps depressing, but the tune is very upbeat, like a Northern Mexico polka-styled song, and it’s sung in a very upbeat way.

Were you born in Mexico?

I was born in Moscow in the Soviet Union, which is now Russia. I grew up in Mexico, mostly in the Northern part of Mexico bordering Texas. I consider myself a border girl.

Did your parents come to the U.S. to escape the Soviet Union?

They weren’t escaping; both are very adventurous, and my mom always dreamt about America, the continent, and was fascinated by indigenous cultures. My dad is Mexican; my mom is Russian. It was more convenient to move to Mexico. We lived many years in Mexico lived on the border, lived a few years in the States, then returned to the border. We never made a permanent move to the States; that is why I consider myself a border girl. In a way, I continue to live the same way.

What did your parents do?

They were students when they met. My dad got a scholarship in Mexico to study in Russia. They both studied agriculture, but my mom also studied dance and choreography. In fact, when they moved to Mexico, that’s what she did. She had a dance school, where she taught ballet and other kinds of dances. That had a lot to do with me becoming a performer. Because I grew up with the theater, doing performances, and everything else that comes along with that, including making costumes, I developed a love for being onstage and having a relationship with the audience.

My dad worked as an irrigation engineer; he had his own company and was the first one to bring large irrigation pivots to Northern Mexico. My mom thought she would also work as an engineer, but instead she built a dance school. She had a ballet school in Chihuahua City, where we lived. When she arrived in Mexico, she didn’t know any Spanish, but to teach dance, one only needs movement, not verbal language. So that’s how she started. She did very well as a Russian dance choreographer. I was part of both of my parents’ worlds: the large, open fields with those machines that sprinkled water on the crops and moved slowly, and the lights of the theater, rooms full of costumes and children dancing.

In performance, you seem very comfortable in front of an audience.

Yes! I do feel very comfortable, which is interesting, because I was quite shy as a young girl. But there’s something about going into performance mode that switches that, and I feel comfortable. Of all of the performance arts forms, singing is the one I feel the least comfortable with. I’m not a perfect singer! But I’m performing, I can do it.

You become a character.

Kind of. I don’t think about acting or interpreting a character. I think of embodying the traces and energy of the character as myself. The self continues to be present. I am not pretending to be, let’s say, the Virgen de Guadalupe or a Quinceañera. I am rather saying to the audience: “I am Polina dressed like the Virgen de Guadalupe and I’m doing these actions. Let’s see what we can do together. Can we create a new story together?” So, in this sense, audience participation, even as a witness, is very important because they complete the story with their own beliefs and attitudes.

I was also thinking of rituals. You’re doing actions that seem to be part of a ritual, maybe a ritual you created yourself. And you’re in costume.

In a way, being in costume and having other elements that are not myself allows me to be myself, but at the same time, not be myself, and play into other possibilities and other worlds. And that is ritual, right? Either rituals that are passed on through tradition, or rituals we all create.

When performing, do you find yourself experiencing a trance-like or shamanistic state?

Yes. But I am present in this world and aware of the audience and my choreography. I think what keeps me grounded is that there’s also a little bit of humor, and the play, the game. I am playing with what a shaman would do, and I believe in those powers. I believe that actions and rituals can make things happen. I’m not a shaman, but I have power, energy, and intention, and that has an effect on people and myself.

For instance, I did a performance in Austria (Hybrid Shamana), where I was doing limpias, which are cleanings of the spirit. It was in a public space, and I very actively looked for people who wanted to have a limpia. One of the first people who came up was an acquaintance, and she was pregnant. So, I was a little more careful and gentler with her. Everything that I did had a positive intention.

I watched the Hybrid Shamana performance you’re describing on YouTube. I imagine the audience found what you were doing to be very exotic, and maybe kind of strange and unfamiliar.

Yes, yes, yes. For sure. For me, it’s interesting to interact with places that are new for me, because my work has a lot of hybridity, visually and culturally speaking. In Hybrid Shamana, I was wearing a big Aztec headdress and a top with images on the front and back. The image on the front was the Empress Sisi, who is a beloved figure in Austrian culture. On the back was the image of Jesus Christ with a very colorful aesthetic, like you would see in Mexico. I was also wearing these big cookies that they sell in Austrian markets. They’re cookies you give to your sweetheart, your boyfriend, or girlfriend.

I’m mixing all of these cultural references. People from Austria would recognize Sisi, but the headdress was modeled after the Penacho of Moctezuma, the Aztec Emperor’s headdress housed in the World Museum Vienna. It’s been there for centuries. I wore that along with a museum ticket, because I went to the museum to see the headdress. The gold of the headdress was made with the gold wrappings of the souvenir Mozart chocolates they sell in Austria.

(Polina Porras Sivolobova performing Hybrid Shama on May 15, 2024, at Atelierhaus Salzamt, Linz, Austria.)

One of the moments in the performance that startled me was when you pulled out a bottle of Coca-Cola, and you started drinking it, and you didn’t stop! Did you plan to drink the whole bottle?

I wasn’t sure. I am playing with a lot of improvisation. I had this suitcase with all of these elements, and I knew I would be improvising in a kind of funny way, but knowing each element has a cultural reference that is real. The egg is one example. When shamans do cleanings of the spirit, they pass an egg around to take out the energy, or whatever is giving you that evil eye. That is a real practice.

There is an indigenous group in the state of Chiapas, in Southern Mexico, who drink Coca-Cola. They drink when doing rituals of cleansing and then burp to release some kind of evil. (laughs) At the time of the performance, I didn’t know if I was going to drink it all or was I going to spit it out. I didn’t know, at that moment, exactly what I was going to do.

I don’t belong to any indigenous traditions. So, in a way, I’m creating my own traditions and rituals. In the state where I live, in Oaxaca, I’m considered to be a white person, or even a foreigner.

Is that simply because of your Russian heritage?

No. It’s because of my skin color. And in Oaxaca, which is highly indigenous, in many towns, Spanish is the second language.

When did performance and multidisciplinary art come into your life?

My first semester at Pratt. I wish I had been introduced to performance art much earlier. I was doing my master’s by then. I had done a bachelor’s in business (laughs) at the University of Texas in El Paso, but all of my electives were in art.

Several very specific things happened. One, I decided to stop painting. I very consciously stopped, and didn’t know what was going to happen, but I had a very strong sense that something would happen. And it did, in less than a week. At Pratt, I saw an exhibition of puppets, which was presented by a class called “Puppets and Performing Objects.” I enrolled in the class, and it just clicked that I could pretty much do anything. It opened up my world. I realized I can make things with my hands. I can make images with my body, and those images can move and tell stories. I still have that very strong sense of composing performances through the image. That’s the visual artist in me, this composing through images.

The images become three-dimensional.

Yes.

On your website, you describe yourself as a nomad. Is that an accurate description?

Yes. It’s an interesting push and pull. Because I feel very energized when I’m on the move. There’s something that keeps me grounded when I move. When I stay too long someplace, which is usually three months, it feels like I have to shake things up and move. On the one hand, I want to do even more of that and expand my nomadic horizon, but at the same time, I am interested in having one place and exploring what that is.

(Polina Porras Sivolobova, Collector of Stones and Other Dead Things, photo performance, Teotitlán del Valle, Oaxaca, Mexico 2013.)

Tell me about your new work-in-progress Coyolxauhqui’s Lament: A Search for Home.

I am changing the way I approach performance and trying new ways to use the body. Most of the performances I’ve done have been site-specific, participatory, and one-time experiences, almost like happenings. This kind of artwork requires a fast, energetic quality, like in a street march or an intervention, especially because they’re done on the street. These performances are very dear to me; they have given me so much material to move on to the next phase. Now I want to build a piece that will have many pieces, kind of like Coyolxauhqui, with different pieces of performances that will maybe or maybe not come together as one performance.

I want to work in a slower way, deepening an artwork, doing less things on the street, in enclosed spaces, and even without audiences, like video-performance.

The Coyolxauhqui image is very strong, but I only have inklings of why I am coming back to her. When I wrote this proposal for the NYSCA grant, I was bringing in Coyolxauhqui in a very intuitive way. Then I remembered when I wrote my master’s thesis, I started my thesis by naming her. But 20 years ago, I was talking about violence against women, and very specifically, the murders in Juarez, Mexico. But this new work is more about exploring how we can exist in pieces, and yet find some sense of grounding, a home, and feeling at ease, knowing the self and knowing where you belong. That belonging can be everywhere. In the sky, Coyolxauhqui becomes the moon and stars.

In a way, it’s self-referential. What does it mean to work with this image now, 20 years later, as an older woman, and how do I bring all of my pieces together in this moment in my life?

There’s a Chicana writer, Gloria Anzaldúa, who writes about Coyolxauhqui’s imperative. It’s a kind of framework for healing and colonial resistance she created based on Coyolxauhqui’s myth. Instead of seeing being in pieces as a bad or negative thing, it’s actually a way of understanding oneself and finding a place in the world. That decolonial aspect is very strong (in my work) now. I’m spending more time in Mexico, and am aware of the indigenous movements happening there, and feeling, in a way, the weight of the culture of the United States. It’s such a strong, Capitalistic culture, and it’s really brutal. So, how do we all thrive and not be beaten down by a culture like that? Now that I’ve been in New York for a month or so, I can see how it impacts lives and communities. In Oaxaca, that kind of resistance happens every day. It’s very much alive, and you can see and feel the resistance of indigenous cultures. Gentrification is the new colonization. That’s happening now, and communities are speaking up.

So, I’m thinking of a lot of things!

(Steve Buscemi as Nick in Parting Glances (1986))

Earlier this month, I wrote about Wings of Desire (1987), a film I figured many Night and Day readers had seen. In contrast, I will hazard a guess that many of you have not seen Parting Glances (1986), which is excellent and easy to find on streaming services, and I’m happy to write a little bit about it for Pride Month. Written and directed by first-time filmmaker Bill Sherwood, and made with a shoestring budget, Parting Glances was a pioneering work of gay cinema and may be the first film that dealt with AIDS and its devastating impact during the Reagan years at the height of the pandemic. It’s also very funny. No spoilers here, but several scenes still make me laugh. There are also some truly poignant moments that anyone who has enjoyed a great friendship, a passionate love affair, and/or an emotionally intimate marriage will relate to.

Of course, when I first saw Parting Glances, at the tender age of 18, I had no experience with any of that stuff. The film screened the year of its release in Columbus, Ohio, at the Drexel Theater, an Art Deco-styled theater located literally across the street from the campus of Capital University, where I was a Music Theory and Composition major, with piano as my main instrument. 1986 wasn’t that long ago, and I can tell you that back then, college campuses, at least in the Midwest, did not have much in the way of resources and support for LGBTQ+ students. As a straight guy who was pretty shy, didn’t drive, and still acquiring some basic social skills, my experience with that community, or any community for that matter, grew the more I composed music, and expanded my creative activities beyond Capital’s campus to include collaborations with students at Ohio State University’s Department of Dance, and scrappy, multidisciplinary performances in the city’s art galleries and alternative spaces. But before gaining a little more life experience, Parting Glances was an education for me, as it was a nuanced portrayal of gay life without negative stereotypes.

Set in New York City and taking place over the course of 24 hours, the film begins as Upper West Side couple Robert (John Bolger) and Michael (Richard Ganoung) prepare for Robert’s departure to Ghana for a two-year work assignment. They share an affectionate, close bond, but it quickly becomes apparent that the relationship has become a bit stale. Maybe even boring. Meanwhile, Michael’s first love, an MTV-era rocker named Nick (Steve Buscemi), is HIV positive. Further complicating the tension between Robert and Michael is the fact that, as Nick’s condition deteriorates, Michael will be left to care for him on his own.

Robert is scheduled to leave the next morning, but before that, he and Michael will head out for dinner with Robert’s closeted boss, drop in on a surprise going-away party hosted by their friend Joan, a struggling artist with a penchant for cocaine (played by Kathy Kinney in her first film), and meet the dawn dancing at a gay club to the music of the British synth-pop band Bronski Beat.

The going-away party is a tour de force of screen writing, acting, and editing, and is still unmatched in cinema in how seamlessly it tells several stories through brief moments of conversation between one character and another, be they straight, gay, or who the hell knows and who the hell cares, while maintaining an atmosphere of communal celebration. But there’s tension as well. Nick, who has been holed up in his neon-lit, television-filled apartment, waiting for his video to broadcast on MTV while trying to ignore the sounds of his neighbors having loud sex, shows up at the party unexpectedly, much to the delight of several friends who have been concerned about him. Later, Nick pulls a switchblade on an especially crass party goer, who expresses a creepy and wholly inappropriate fascination with his HIV positive diagnosis. Meanwhile, Robert sneaks off for a tête-à-tête with an ex-girlfriend from college, leaving Michael, who eavesdrops on their conversation, feeling dejected and more unsure of the future than before.

For those of you who first encountered Buscemi as the whiny and wily "Mr. Pink” in Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs (1992), his performance as Nick will be a revelation. Unlike pretty much every other role Buscemi has played on screen since then, in Parting Glances, his character is charismatic, street smart, and yes, at times, sardonic, but in other scenes, quite vulnerable. In 1986, Buscemi was a former firefighter with very little professional experience as an actor, and apparently his audition for the role of Nick was a disaster. But Sherwood was aware of Buscemi’s talent as a stage actor, and told him if he wanted the role, it was his. (Sadly, Sherwood died of AIDS-related complications in 1990 at the age of 37.)

Another unexpected guest at Robert’s going-away party is Peter, a young man Michael met earlier that evening while buying Nick some opera on vinyl. (The Mozart aria “Don Giovanni. A cenar teco m’invitasti” is used to great effect in the film.) Peter’s presence is not without some drama; he’s good-looking, and basks in plenty of attention, but quickly manages to piss off just about everyone in attendance, mainly because he’s a young kid who doesn’t know when to shut the f-ck up. (Don’t pretend. You know you’ve been that kid.) Peter and Nick’s conversation in a stairwell outside of the Joan’s loft is an awkward, almost painful exchange between two generations, one naive and exuberant, the other resigned and world-weary. You’re left to wonder what will happen to Peter after he suddenly flees down the stairs and into the New York night. (Tellingly, Peter rebuffs Nick’s offer of cab fare.)

There’s so much more I could write about this film, but then we’d get into spoilers, and I don’t want to ruin anything for the first-time viewer. I will say, regarding the levels of hostility and violence directed at the LGBTQ+ community, I wonder some days how much has changed in our culture for the better since the Reagan years. Some days, it can feel pretty bleak. But this film, like all great art, pushes back at those feelings of hopelessness, and remains as a testament to our shared humanity, like a note, passed from one person to the next, with a message to be brave, stand up for your friends and for strangers, and live life without apology or fear.

(Still from Wings of Desire, directed by Wim Wenders, 1987.)

Hello, and thank you to my new subscribers. I cover a lot of ground each month here on Night and Day, and it’s all archived, so you can take your time anytime to dig in and enjoy the writing.

I’m guessing most of my readers have seen Wim Wenders’ 1987 masterpiece Wings of Desire, shot largely in glorious black and white by Henri Alekan and filmed on location in West Berlin before the wall came down. The film tells the story of two angels, Damiel (Bruno Ganz) and Cassiel (Otto Sander), who invisibly traverse the streets, interiors, and skies of the city, observing the intimate lives of its populace, and, on occasion, transmitting feelings of comfort to those in distress. They’re not always successful. In one of the film’s most unsettling scenes, Cassiel attempts to comfort a distressed, yet strangely serene man seated high on the ledge of a tall building, who nevertheless jumps to his death. And at times, it seems the angels are desperately trying to experience what it might be like to exist in our physical plane. (Not surprisingly, the only humans who can see the angels are children, who are delighted with each encounter.)

The film features music performances by Crime and the City Solution and the equally photogenic Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, who help unite Damiel with Marion (Solveig Dommartin), a circus trapeze artist he’s fallen in love with.

Earlier this May, I traveled to New York City for a weekend of rehearsals and performances with Racoco Productions, a dance theater company I’ve collaborated with as a composer for many years. Returning to the city where I once lived is always invigorating and exhausting; New York was crucial to developing my skills as a composer, and with recording and mixing music. It’s a city where artists go to pay their dues.

My schedule over a long weekend was busy, but one afternoon, I found time to hop on the subway uptown to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see a once-in-a-lifetime exhibit of drawings and paintings by Raffaello di Giovanni Santi (1483–1520), better known as Raphael. In New York, while riding the subways, eye contact is discouraged. It’s a cultural thing. Not that people aren’t friendly; it’s just there’s such an overflow of humanity, you can’t really look and say, “Hi!” to everyone who crosses your path.

Riding a relatively crowded car, I was standing and hanging on and couldn’t help but look at each person around me, catching stray bits of conversation above the roar of the train, all while my own mind was racing. Thankfully, I wasn’t exactly in distress. But, as we all sped along, I couldn’t help but brood a bit about the future. (I find travel encourages introspection.) Without going into detail, the challenge of searching for and finding full-time work was weighing on me, and I was worried about what I would be doing after this trip, where I was blessed to collaborate with great musicians, watch such incredible dancers move to my music, and experience the pleasure of meeting audiences to discuss what they had seen and felt.

At some point, I looked downward and noticed a woman sitting and staring into space. She was probably not much older than me, with gray in her hair, which was pulled back, and wire-frame glasses. There was a bag between her feet containing what looked to me like frames for artwork, and I wondered if she had purchased some drawings or prints somewhere and was traveling home to hang them up. As soon as I thought that thought, she caught me looking at her, and smiled a sort of tired but friendly smile, which I tried to return without looking like a freak. Then I noticed the words on the tote carrying the frames: “Let Go! Be Happy!”, or something close to that sentiment. Whatever the wording was exactly, it was, for me, a very welcome and timely reminder.

Who was this mysterious woman? I wanted to know, but then again, I didn’t. Why spoil one of those rare moments when the physical plane vanishes momentarily to provide you with a glimpse into something both otherworldly and comforting?

I seem to remember the late great Greg Allman speaking about his years of substance abuse and health issues, and noting that he must have some “tired angels,” as in guardian angels, looking out for him. (Any Allman Brothers fans out there are free to correct me on this!) I definitely haven’t lived as hard as Allman, but I can relate to what he said about his angels being a little worn out from taking care of his ass.

While writing this, I was reminded of great scene in another one of my favorite films, The Year of Living Dangerously (1982), where Mel Gibson’s character, journalist Guy Hamilton, and photographer Billy Kwan (played by Linda Hunt) are walking to Billy’s home at night. Guy asks about the “weird” creaking sound he hears. Billy tells him, “It’s the bamboo,” but adds that there was indeed a spirit in the area, and that it had come into his home one night and spilled a bunch of developing fluid.

Guy: Do you really believe that stuff?

Billy: Absolutely, old man. The unseen world is all around us.”

Have you, dear reader, had such an experience, found yourself at the end of your rope, only to take a breath and feel your feet return to the ground? Have you ever looked up and caught a glimpse of a figure, winged or not, looking down at you as if to make sure you’re okay?

(Two cherubs as seen in the painting Sistine Madonna by Raphael.)

1. Picasso – Klee – Matisse: Masterpieces from the Museum Berggruen at MFAH

(Pablo Picasso, Dora Maar with Green Fingernails, 1936, oil on canvas, Museum Berggruen, Neue Nationalgalerie. © 2026, Estate of Pablo Picasso / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.)

Now on view at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, through September 13, 2026, is a beautifully curated selection of modern masterworks on loan from the Museum Berggruen in Berlin. While the Museum Berggruen is closed for renovations, its collection is touring internationally, and the MFAH is the first U.S. stop.

Between the 1940s and the 1990s, Heinz Berggruen amassed hundreds of modern masterworks, many of them directly from the artists. Along with paintings, drawings, and sculptures by Picasso, Matisse, and Klee — an artist rarely shown in the U.S. — is a selection of breathtaking sculptures by Alberto Giacometti, works by Georges Braque and Paul Cezanne, and three haunting landscapes by pioneering artist and photographer Dora Maar. (These and a handful of other pieces come from the MFAH’s collection.) The inclusion of Maar is significant, for she, like Braque, was a true collaborator of Picasso. (Apparently, long after her and Picasso’s relationship came to an end, Maar kept Dora Maar with Green Fingernails hung above her fireplace, a truly frightening scenario for any curator, historian, or conservator.)

The works in the exhibit are installed thematically, revealing how these artists were influenced by and conversed with each other through their respective mediums. In gallery after gallery, there is a welcome balance between historical investigation and the pure sensual experience of looking at sumptuous art, and you don’t have to travel to Europe to experience it!

2. Henrique Oliveira and Katsumi Hayakawa at McClain Gallery

(Henrique Oliveira, Xilempasto 15, 2021, plywood and pigments.)

Meanwhile, McClain Gallery is showing new and recent works by two very different artists: Brazilian-born sculptor, installation artist, and painter Henrique Oliveira and Japanese artist Katsumi Hayakawa, whose work encompasses paintings and cut-paper sculptures.

Oliveira’s London Works include relatively large, wall-mounted sculptures of meticulously bent plywood, which seem to continue to twist and morph before your eyes, like dramatic strokes of paint across a three-dimensional canvas captured in real time. To my eyes, there’s an intense, almost threatening quality to these works, which simultaneously look like the fantastical creatures of the natural world and artfully composed detritus of an abandoned civilization. Complementing these sculptures are a series of smaller-scale impasto paintings, which feel much gentler and less turbulent.

(Katsumi Hayakawa, Void, 2025, acrylic on panel.)

Hayakawa’s Constellations of Matter brings together highly detailed paintings and hand-crafted paper and mixed-media works into a body of work that, to quote the McClain Gallery website, “plays with the compositional idea of void vs. solid to amplify spatial relationships between alternative realities and metropolitan spaces.” Reading that statement, I am reminded of Rumi’s “Poem of the Atoms,” which describes how every atom in the universe, including those that make up a drop of paint, is dancing, and how the whirling dervish dance is a portal between the earthly and cosmic worlds. (Can a painting be a portal?) While my guess is Hayakawa’s spiritual beliefs lean more toward Buddhism than Sufism, there is an ecumenical quality present in this work. Hayakawa’s art embodies a prayer-like stillness, born out of the speed- and tech-obsessed physical and virtual spaces of our modern age.

3. Kaima Marie Akarue at Jonathan Hopson Gallery

(Kaima Marie Akarue, 𝘎𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘋𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘳, 𝘚𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘭 (detail), 2025, hand-cut collage featuring inkjet-printed elements on heavyweight bright-white alkaline bond.)

One of the joys of writing about art is meeting and interviewing an artist, and then watching their work evolve as the years go by.

I interviewed Houston artist Kaima Marie Akarue for Houston CityBook in 2024, not long after first encountering her work at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston in an expansive exhibit of modern and contemporary art work titled Multiplicity: Blackness in Contemporary American Collage. Akarue, a nationally exhibited artist, had a solo show that same year at Art Is Bond. I described Akarue’s collages in that show as “a multiverse of beloved Houston landmarks, presented in dizzying Cubist perspectives; ornate interior spaces filled with paintings, books, and records — all stuff we use to document and preserve personal, family, and collective histories; and human figures, including members of Marie’s family, whose presence adds yet another quizzical layer to these already densely packed works.” Since then, the subject matter explored in her art has continued to expand.

The works in Akarue’s latest exhibition, Under the Atlantic Veil, on view at Jonathan Hopson Gallery through March 31, were created during and shortly after traveling to Dakar for her 2025 Black Rock Senegal artist residency, a prestigious, multidisciplinary program founded by renowned artist Kehinde Wiley. It’s clear from looking at the art that her time in Dakar was life-changing. Of the collage above, 𝘎𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘋𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘳, 𝘚𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘨𝘢l, Akarue writes on Instagram: “The Atlantic rarely reflects soft pink hues, but on multiple occasions during my stay, I witnessed a pink ocean. . .The girls in pink symbolize resilience and joy, a quiet reflection of how beauty endures even within shifting tides of place, access, and belonging.”

Under the Atlantic Veil closes May 31. Hours for Jonathan Hopson Gallery are by appointment only.

+ The Biggest Brandon: The Biggest Love

(Houston singer-songwriter, pianist, and composer Brandon Willis.)

Houston singer-songwriter The Biggest Brandon, a.k.a. Brandon Willis came to my attention thanks to vibraphonist Jalen Baker, who executive produced Willis’s gorgeous and ambitious new album, The Biggest Love. The album, released under the name The Biggest Brandon, drops May 21 across all streaming platforms. To celebrate the release, on Sunday, May 24th, Willis will lead an ensemble of stellar Houston musicians in an “immersive” performance at the at the historic Eldorado Ballroom.

Willis and Baker grew up just blocks away from each other in Houston’s Third Ward and met while attending Kinder High School for the Performing and Visual Arts (HSPVA). “We spent years shedding together,” says Willis, “experimenting musically, and pushing each other creatively while trying to find new ways to apply all of our classical and formal training into something fresh and personal.”

Willis’s connection to jazz intrigued me, but there are also strong gospel and hip-hop influences in the textures and energy behind his singing and songwriting. (Willis is an award-winning, state-recognized choir director at The Rhodes School for the Performing Arts. And Houston rapper God Body Bingo contributed to the lyrics.) Willis doesn’t scream. But he does sizzle. To my ears, fans of Take 6, Stevie Wonder, and smoother tracks by the late great D’Angelo will find plenty of joy in the lush, stacked harmonies on The Biggest Love. For the El Dorado Ballroom show, Willis will be joined by vocalists Zmaji Glamouratti, Bee Honey, and M3CCA on arrangements Willis describes as more “condensed and direct” for a live performance, while maintaining the emotional weight of the melodies and lyrics.

Along with Baker on percussion (including, I’m guessing, handclaps on the flamenco-infused “Love Me You Lie”), The Biggest Love features keyboardist and Blue Note Records recording artist Paul Cornish on piano and Hammond B3. “Paul is one of the most gifted musicians I know,” says Willis, “but beyond that, he has an incredible spirit that comes through in every note he plays.” Cornish, another HSPVA alum, has played with Baker for years, and their “musical symbiosis” can be heard throughout the album.

The El Dorado Ballroom show will be preceded by live panel discussion with Kam Franklin (lead singer of The Suffers), Chelsea Lenora Wright (singer-songwriter and Editor-in-Chief of the Forward Times), multidisciplinary visual artist Randy Wrosiv, and God Body Bingo. The panel will be moderated by Harrison Guy, Director of Arts & Culture for the Fifth Ward Cultural Arts District and founder of Urban Souls Dance Company. Tickets are available to purchase in advance online.

Sadly, Houston CityBook ceased operations in October 2025, and its website is now gone. Thankfully, I have a copy of pretty much every issue of the magazine, as well as final drafts of my articles for the website archived on my MacBook or saved in my outgoing emails. I will continue to share some of those articles here on Night and Day.

The following article about Houston artist El Franco Lee II was written in 2023 ahead of his mid-career survey at the Houston Museum of African American Culture, curated by fellow artist and then HMAAC’s Chief Curator, Christopher Blay. The exhibit brought together over 60 works created over previous 16 years of El Franco’s professional career, which developed from early childhood drawings to formal training at Yale University, a BFA in painting, and later an MFA, both from the School of Art at the University of Houston.

I thought this would interest visual artists and musicians outside of Houston, who may be new to Houston’s underground hip-hop culture, and the range and depth of El Franco’s artistic output.

Update: El Franco Lee II is currently part a group show “Minor Regional Novelist” at Nature of Things in Dallas, TX. The show runs through May 23, 2026. You can check out a very positive (and detailed) review of the show on Glasstire.

(El Franco Lee II, DJ Screw in Heaven, 2022-23.)

On view through September 2, 2023 at the Houston Museum of African American Culture is a head-spinning mid-career survey of over 60 drawings and paintings by Houston artist El Franco Lee II. Curated by HMAAC’s chief curator Christopher Blay, the exhibit is an opportunity for those unfamiliar with El Franco’s work to experience first-hand the breadth of his talent and gain insight into an underground stratum of the city’s musical culture, including the storied history and ongoing creative influence of the late Robert Earl Davis Jr., a.k.a. DJ Screw. El Franco is also unflinching in his portrayal of racially motivated violence as it is wrought upon Black people in our country, as seen in his series of paintings depicting the horrifying 1988 dragging death of Jasper, TX resident James Byrd, Jr. by a trio of avowed and unrepentant white supremacists.

“With painting, you have to go 360 degrees into that 2D canvas to tell a visual story,” says El Franco. “So why not throw in the political and social side of things? Otherwise, it’s just going to be a portrait or a reproduced photo in paint.”

Born in 1979, El Franco grew up in the Kashmere Gardens area of the Fifth Ward, and started drawing at age three, trying to create “something that looked like the human form.” His father, El Franco Lee, served as a Texas State Representative from 1979 to 1985 and was the first African American elected to county commissioner in Harris County. From the very beginning, he fully supported his son’s first attempts to draw such subjects as Bert and Ernie, Voltron, and He-Man. (El Franco recalls throwing out a drawing in frustration, only to have his father fish it out of the trash to keep.) Another important role model for El Franco was his father’s older brother, Robert E. Lee III, a Chicago-based activist for the Black Panther Party, who returned to Texas 1970 to serve as a social worker in the former Harris County Hospital District.

(El Franco Lee II, Clydesdale, 2019.)

A sports fan since he was young, El Franco finds a great deal of visual inspiration in the anatomy and muscle tone of great athletes, as well as the contrasting colors of team uniforms. But he does view the world of professional sports with a critical eye. In El Franco’s painting Clydesdale, LeBron James stands with his back to the viewer, arms extended and head tilted back as if yelling to the heavens, as a menagerie of pissed-off white basketball fans respond with threatening signs and extended middle fingers. Boxing legend Jack Johnson stands on James’, having just knocked out his opponent, while on the right, Michael Jordan looms over the familiar logos for McDonald’s and Gatorade. Figures both past and present often share the space within El Franco’s paintings, and nestled between Johnson and James is a young boy, perhaps a self-portrait as a pre-adolescent, simultaneously playing two video games, Grand Theft Auto and Call of Duty. “To me, those are two pivotal games that changed the demeanor of society, and its desensitization to violence,” says El Franco. Bringing it all home is yet another figure in this densely populated painting: a black man with a noose around his neck. “There are a lot of innuendos from my point of view of Black athletes being used like work horses and discarded when they fail to perform,” says El Franco of Clydesdale. “But then again, that’s true in the entertainment industry and the art world. It cuts across all forms and aspects of entertainment.”

(El Franco Lee II, Da Black Al Capone)

Meanwhile, Da Black Al Capone transforms a petty beef between Houston rapper Lil’ Flip and Atlanta-based artist T.I. into a modern-day history painting. (There’s as much Jacques-Louis David as John T. Biggers in El Franco’s work.) Back in 2004, Lil’ Flip very publicly took issue with T.I.’s claim to be “The King of the South,” which prompted T.I. to roll into Cloverland in an ill-advised attempt to embarrass Lil’ Flip in his own neighborhood. Lil’ Flip’s friend and fellow Clover G recording artist Da Black Al Capone was there to greet T.I. with a solid connecting punch to the jaw. “Down here in Houston, we have several kings of the South,” says El Franco, whose friends in Cloverdale witnessed and provided him with details about the fight. “So, for T.I. to call himself ‘King of the South’? That struck a nerve.”

The variety and sheer number of works on display by El Franco at HMAAC speak to the richness of Southern life and culture, and all of its crazy, grim, and beautiful contradictions, as painting after painting venerates individuals who might not otherwise appear on canvas in a museum. Looking ahead, El Franco says he plans to focus on the political and musical landscape of Houston in the 1980s and 90s, with his father being a recurring subject. Before then, there is plenty, but not an infinite amount of time for you to catch up with El Franco’s vision.

While working on this article, I asked El Franco via email about what it was like working with Blay, a fellow artist.

Chris Becker: Christopher is both a curator and a practicing artist. I think in the museum world, that background is unusual. Was Blay’s experience in making and showing his own art helpful in putting together your retrospective for HMAAC? Did you two connect not just as a curator and an artist but as two fellow artists?

El Franco Lee II: A selfless, decorated Curator and Practicing artist is definitely a rare combination. When his curatorial hat is on, 100% percent of his focus is on the artist that he’s working with. Throughout the duration of planning my show, I had no idea that Christopher made art until seeing his iconic installation sculpture, SpLaVCE Ship. I’ve even walked in his office and admired the Afro Pick series of framed pieces hanging on the wall, but had no idea that it was actually his work. After putting two and two together, pertaining to his curatorial instinct, plus having a distinct vision for exhibition installations, it all made sense. The craftiness and persistence in getting the job done for the most part, by himself, is all consistent with what it takes to create his own art on a high level, which obviously is a reflection of his own studio practice. The entire time we were connected as Artist, and I didn’t even realize it.

In my formative years as a music theory and composition major, I learned so much about music from hanging out with my fellow musicians and listening to records. Sounds obvious, right? But does this ritual still exist, where you and a few other individuals gather on the floor, couch, or around a table and, over the course of several hours, listen to one record in its entirety after another? In these days of instant gratification and near-zero attention spans, I wholeheartedly believe that sitting still and allowing yourself the pleasure of some extended listening time is healthy for both the body and the mind, as is reading a novel, or walking slowly through the galleries of a museum.

I try to set aside time every other night or so to just sit down with my record player (or the laptop!) and headphones and be still while music plays. It might be something I return to again and again, like Pat Metheny and Lyle Mays’ masterpiece, As Falls Wichita, So Falls Wichita Falls; or it might be something totally new to my ears (see the releases below). If the thought of sitting and listening to music for more than five minutes sounds like a strain, why not try it in small doses? Try one track, then two. Get up, stretch, and make some tea. Then settle down and listen to three or more pieces of music in a row. Like anything new, you need to start slow.

You can always begin with one or all of the selections below!

The Wheel Workers — Live From The Attic

(The Wheel Workers)

This one actually came out April 10, so I’m a little late in bringing it to your attention. In a piece for Houston CityBook, I described the sound of Texas-based, indie prog punk rockers The Wheel Workers as “a kaleidoscopic blend of soaring melodic hooks, alternately chiming and grungy guitars, spiraling keyboard patterns, and noisy synth squiggles and squalls.” Led by singer and multi-instrumentalist Steven Higginbotham, The Wheel Workers are a collective juggernaut, with a repertoire spanning two decades and featuring more than 15 contributing members. Their latest release, the raw but tight Live From The Attic, is the sound of a seasoned band just going for it; no second takes, no overdubs. To quote John Cale, it’s some “dirty ass rock and roll” with brains.

Sarah Rothenberg — In Darkness And Light

This one got me so excited I ended up purchasing it in advance head of its release, which is today, May 8, 2026. In Darkness And Light is a collection of solo piano compositions by Vijay Iyer (“For My Father”), Morton Feldman (“Palais de Mari”), and Ludwig Van Beethoven “Piano Sonata No. 32 in C Minor, Op. 111”) performed by pianist Sarah Rothenberg. It’s a provocative program that was conceived, reflects upon, and ultimately transcends the anxiety and fear of the worst months of the COVID-19 pandemic when, as Rothenberg puts it, “time had no measure; we seemed to lose the bar lines of our days.” On this recording, especially in her performance of Feldman’s breathtaking final work for piano, you hear Rothenberg’s gift for what a jazz guitarist described to me as “playing the silences.”

Natalie Lin Douglas and Patrick Yim — Gobi Canticle

New Zealand-born violinist and educator Natalie Lin Douglas is the founder and musical director of the Houston 16-member, conductorless string ensemble, Kinetic. Honolulu-born violinist and violist Patrick Yim is currently Assistant Professor of Violin at the University of Notre Dame, and like Douglas, is a strong advocate of new music, and has commissioned more than 50 works, including repertoire for violin and non-Western instruments. Douglas and Yim’s debut release, Gobi Canticle, brings together 11 contemporary string duo works by composers of Asian heritage. On this fast-moving, but carefully curated collection of music (some pieces last just one or two minutes), Douglas and Yim use their combined technique and virtuosity not just to nail the notes, but to unlock and share the emotional heart and personal story of each composer, many of whom were new to me. The range of expression possible with just two instruments is jaw-dropping, and the entire program reveals something fresh with each listen.

1. Selven Jarmon at Front Gallery

(Selven Jarmon, LFNG V, acrylic on canvas mounted to plywood, stainless steel and cotton thread, 2025.)

Houston artist Selven O’Keef Jarmon’s Looking for New Guinea, an installation of sculptural garments and mixed-media objects, is on view April 25 through June 10 at the artist-run Front Gallery. Jarmon’s practice traverses fashion design, drawing, public sculpture, and community-driven art making, as seen in the monumental tapestry, 360 Degrees Vanishing, created by beaders from sewing co-ops in the Eastern Cape and over 1,000 volunteers from across Houston. Originally scheduled to exhibit at the Museum of African American History, Nantucket, Looking for New Guinea was cancelled due to (you guessed it!) federal funding cuts. Thankfully, Front Gallery stepped up to provide a space for Jarmon’s latest body of work.

The show’s title references New Guinea, an 18th and 19th-century neighborhood in Nantucket, Massachusetts, named after the West African country where Africans had been taken as slaves. New Guinea, now known as “Five Corners,” was a thriving community and home to free Blacks and their families, Native Americans from the Wampanoag tribe, Hawaiian islanders who worked in the whaling industry, Cape Verdeans, Quakers, and abolitionists. Throughout the exhibit, Jarmon’s line drawings and crocheted dresses pay homage to similarly displaced Black American settlements, such as “Queen City,” a community established in 1892 in Arlington, VA, who were displaced in the early 1940s to make room for the construction of the Pentagon. Complementing the drawings and garments are wall-mounted stainless steel and cotton thread constructions, which activate the space like oracles from a not-so-ancient, vanished civilization.

2. McKay Otto at Heidi Vaughan Fine Art

(McKay Otto, Ever Just Enough Ever, mixed media, 2026.)

When I received images for GOLD, an exhibit of McKay Otto’s recent paintings and sculptures currently on view in at Heidi Vaughan Fine Art, I mistakenly (or maybe naively) thought that some or all of them were connected to sockets, and glowing via electricity. Nope. These are indeed unplugged, two- and three-dimensional works, with layer after layer of acrylic paint laboriously applied over stretched, translucent fabric or mixed media, which produces an ephemeral and ethereal experience for the eye. And that’s not all. In select paintings, words spelled out in phosphorescent paint (“If” “Love” “Choice”) simmer just below the surface of Otto’s pigments and reveal themselves only in literal darkness.

Throughout his career, Otto has readily acknowledged the inspiration of the abstract, minimalist painter Agnes Martin, whom he met in 1997 and became his mentor and friend. In a 2024 interview for Glasstire, Otto revealed that Martin told him, with disarming bluntness, “I’ve been doing horizontal vertical lines on a two-dimensional plane, and I don’t know how to go beyond that. You’re gonna do it.” So, when is a two-dimensional painting no longer two-dimensional, and instead seems to hover above the canvas, extend beyond its frame, and carry you, the viewer, away to someplace else? That question, and McKay’s painting and sculptures, reminded me of something David McGee said about the experience of viewing art in person: “They do something to the electricity of your body.”

GOLD is on view through May 9, 2026. An artist talk takes place on the final day of the show.

3. Handel’s Messiah at Houston Grand Opera

(Dancer Alexis Fousekis; photo by Michael Bishop.)

Speaking of light, in both the literal and spiritual sense, Houston Grand Opera is currently presenting late director Robert Wilson’s celebrated production of Handel’s Messiah. Wilson famously believed light was the most important actor on any stage, and in the highly theatrical realization, before the first note of Handel’s oratorio sounds, the HGO audience is bathed in a blend of clean, neon-esque lines and otherworldly hues, as a lone dancer (Alexis Fousekis) performs a slow circuitous walk, as if stepping across the border between this world and a dream. From there, Handel’s music is artfully balanced with action and images that are both beautiful and bizarre. No spoilers here, but on opening night, the audience audibly gasped twice in reaction to what was happening onstage. The performances by the soloists, soprano Ying Fang, countertenor Aryeh Nussbaum Cohen, tenor Ben Bliss, and bass-baritone Nicholas Newton, the HGO Chorus, and the orchestra conducted by Patrick Summers, inspired applause at the conclusion of several passages and arias and a final standing ovation.

Major kudos must go to the HGO Chorus, who, in addition to navigating, from memory, Mozart’s arrangement of one of the most vocally virtuosic choral works in Western music, are tasked with executing some truly physically demanding choreographic gestures, and facial expressions somewhere between Weimar-era Bertolt Brecht and Japanese butoh. Throughout the performance, the soloists are also busy. Bliss complements his arias with some vaudevillian dance moves and exaggerated (and wholly inappropriate) winking. Fang, by contrast, maintains a luminous, angelic presence throughout, whether singing while standing nearly motionless as she guides a ferry across the stage, or pouring a clear glass of water over her head and down her back, perhaps as an allusion to baptism. Somehow, and this is Wilson’s genius, as these strange and beautiful images unfold, you to hear this very familiar music in a new way.

The remaining performances of Handel’s Messiah take place on April 25 and 29, and May 1 and 3. And currently on view through May 2 at Josh Pazda Hiram Butler are Wilson’s distinctive charcoal drawings for the Messiah. As a separate, yet connected body of work, the drawings reveal Wilson’s brilliance for integrating light and shadow with provocative movement and timeless music.

+ Joe Locascio - Emotion Sickness

With over 30 recordings to his credit, Houston jazz pianist and multi-dimensional composer Joe Locascio is one of the city’s most prolific and respected musicians. His wide ranging repertoire includes three solo piano albums of music by Thelonious Monk, a tribute to Billy Strayhorn recorded with Houston saxophonist Woody Witt, and albums combining electronics and spoken word with traditional jazz instrumentation. Locascio’s latest album, Emotion Sickness, is a trio recording of his compositions, with longtime friends bassist David Craig and drummer Tim Solook, and it is an excellent introduction to the range of his compositional styles. Witt has spoken of the sophistication Locascio’s harmonic palatte which, for me, means the color each individual chord grabs you just as much as his melodies, which unfold with their own kind of dream logic. They may begin with the simplest of gestures before going off in several unexpected directions (“Emblems”), or explore a stark, circular path, like a prayer you recite while walking a labyrinth after dark (“The Silent Companions”). Craig and Solook are totally on board with Locascio’s program, bringing the swing (“Invisible”), the pathos (“Lonely Bones”), and the funk (“Emotion Sickness”) with the ease that master musicians are able to channel. This is a mesmerizing recording you’ll play several times, and never cease to hear something new.

(Karl Blench; photo by Natalie Gaynor.)

Welcome to a new “Blindfold Test” for Night and Day with composer Karl Blench.

Originated by Downbeat magazine, a “blindfold test” is a listening test that challenges the featured artist to identify and discuss the music and musicians performing on selected recordings. No information is given to the artist in advance of the test.

I met Houston-based composer, conductor, and educator Karl Blench through his husband, cellist Patrick Moore. Moore is the founder of Axiom Quartet, who have performed and recorded several arrangements by Blench of contemporary rock, pop, and R&B songs. Upon hearing Karl’s scorching, re-imagined version of David Bowie’s “Fame” for string quartet, I was inspired by try my hand at arranging Bowie’s music for strings as well! I was also inspired to check out Blench’s original compositions, and quickly became a fan of his works for chamber groups, wind ensembles, and orchestra. His recent projects include arranging and orchestrating best-selling author Dan Brown’s musical suite Wild Symphony, a collection of short pieces composed by Brown to accompany his first ever book for children; and Open Source, 32-minute chamber work composed for baritone voice and string quartet, with a libretto by Jacqui Sutton, that tells the origin story of First Congregational Church of Houston, a congregation that became one of the first churches in Houston to welcome people of color during the civil rights era. The premiere recording of Open Source, featuring baritone Timothy Jones and Axiom Quartet, will be released Friday, April 10.

(Baritone Timothy Jones performing Blench’s Open Source with Axiom Quartet; photo by Tan Truong.)

Karl earned his undergraduate music education and music theory degrees from the University of New Hampshire. He relocated to Texas in 2005 to pursue graduate studies at Rice University, where he earned both his master’s and doctoral degrees in music composition. Karl’s music has been performed in such prestigious venues as Carnegie Hall and the Kennedy Center, and by several renowned ensembles, including the Indianapolis Symphony, the University of New Hampshire Wind Ensemble, the University of Houston Wind Ensemble, and the Shepherd School of Music Orchestra and Chamber Orchestra.

Currently, Blench serves as the music director and conductor of Symphony North of Houston and as a lecturer at Rice University, which is where the following “blindfold test” took place. I’ve described Karl’s music as “stately” and “elegiac,” and some of my selections reflect that. But there are also a few surprises, which, I hope, speak to the range of Karl’s artistry.

(Scroll down for a Spotify playlist of the following tracks.)

(Charles Ives; photo courtesy of Bettman/Bettman/Getty Images.)

Charles Ives

“At the River” by Charles Ives (from Charles Ives: Songs, 2005, Nonesuch), Jan DeGaetani, mezzo soprano; Gilbert Kalish, piano

(Recognizing the song immediately.) I’ve gotten to know all of Ives’s harmonizations over the past two years. Who is the singer?

Jan DeGaetani. This is a whole album of her singing Ives’ music. One reason I chose this is that in Open Source, you reharmonize “Wherever I May Wander,” a children’s song in the FCC’s church hymnal, with new lyrics by Jacqui Sutton. When did the music of Ives come into your life?

High school. Way back in the 90s, I grew up in Western Massachusetts, in a small town called Ware. My graduating class was 67 kids, so it wasn’t a big school. I was a trombone player and had started composing in my junior year, and would go to this huge, two-story Barnes and Noble in a town called Holyoke. They had a massive classical CD collection and a good selection of Dover scores, and they would do special orders. I remember hearing Ives on a record my mother had made when she was in High School, with the Ponaganset wind ensemble in Rhode Island. I would listen to it, and they played the last movement of Ives’ Symphony No. 2, a version for band, and I immediately fell in love with it. Because all of the Americana tunes are in there, and it’s sort of “normal” and traditional for Ives, until the very end, when it goes off the rails in the last few measures. You get the trumpet going (sings the famous bugle call, “Reveille”) and all of a sudden, WAHHHH!!!! (laughter) It’s this raspberry — sticking your nose up at all European traditions in classical music at the time. And I just thought that was amazing!

So, I ordered the score for Ives’ “Fourth of July” from the Holiday Symphony. I had no business trying to decipher the score as a high school student! It took me forever to get through it because of how complex it was.

Have you conducted Ives’ music?

No, but I’ve played some of his music, chamber pieces. He is on my list!

You mentioned the European tradition, and Ives was very much an outlier in that respect.

Yes. After his second symphony, you start to really get into this monumental sort of thinking and compositional technique. Arnold Schoenberg famously said, “There is a great man living in this country — a composer. His name is Ives.”

Is Ives a composer you introduce to young students of composition?

It depends on what their aesthetic is going to be. But I think it’s important, regardless of what you are trying to do, that you understand some of the techniques Ives is doing. I teach Ives a lot here (at Shepherd), particularly from a rhythmic standpoint, and instruct my underclassmen on how to navigate their way through an Ives piece.

(Eric Whitacre; courtesy of ericwhitacre.com.)

Eric Whitacre

“Sleep” by Eric Whitacre, (from Rising, 2012, Summit Records), performed by Northwestern University Symphonic Wind Ensemble, conducted by Mallory Thompson.

A band piece, obviously. Eric Whitacre? Is this a version of Sleep?

Yes. You’ve composed a lot for winds.

I grew up in the band program. I was an undergraduate when I first came across Eric Whitacre’s music.

He’s pretty well known among wind players coming up in high school and college?

Yes, and chorus. He has this status among choir players that is quite impressive. I’ve never met him, but I hear he’s one of the nicest human beings on the planet.

What are some things young composers need to be aware of when composing for winds?

One is that they need to breathe! People forget that so easily.

I have two young students at Strake Jesuit who are working on band stuff, and the wind ensemble is playing their music. And one of the things they’re learning that I warned them about is that not everybody has to play all the time. You get a lot of music where it’s very dense, it’s not balanced correctly, but the nice thing is you learn by doing it.

Another thing about winds that’s different from (a full) orchestra is trying to achieve that lush sound that a string section gives you. I talk about how to score in a way for band that will help to give that illusion, using saxophones, using the horns . . .

Like the blending of instruments?

Yes, blending is a big thing.

(Michael Torke; photo by Bryan Hainer.)

Michael Torke

“July” by Michael Torke (from Standards, 1998, Channel Classics Records), performed by New Century Saxophone Quartet.

I chose this after hearing your Three Movements for Saxophone Quartet, which I really liked! But this is very different.

Oh, yes! I don’t know who the composer is.

It’s Michael Torke. A piece called July.

The saxophone is such a versatile instrument. Players are able do these kinds of figures. Any circular breather I’ve met has played the saxophone. Another great thing about saxophones is that almost all of their repertoire is new, so they’re used to different notation styles.

There’s a body of work for the saxophone in the classical realm, and then you have Charlie Parker, jazz, and this whole other language and range of sounds and techniques. Have you delved into jazz language?

A little bit, yes. A lot of my harmonic choices come from jazz. When I was an undergraduate, I played bass trombone in the jazz band. We had the Clark Terry jazz festival every year, and when Terry was alive, he came every year.

Wow!

So, I got to be onstage with him. I was playing in the band that was backing him up. Every year, we would have another guest. Branford Marsalis was a guest, Paquito D’Rivera, amongst others. They were up there, playing with Clark, and I was there, observing and taking it all in. I really got into the harmonies they were doing with ballads, and what different arrangers, like Stan Kenton, were up to.

(David Bowie with Luther Vandross, Anthony Hinton and Warren Peace.)

David Bowie

“Fame” by David Bowie (from Young Americans, 1975, RCA), David Bowie, lead vocals, rhythm guitar, piano, percussion; John Lennon, backing vocals, acoustic guitar; Carlos Alomar, lead and rhythm guitars; Earl Slick, rhythm guitar; Emir Ksasan, bass; Dennis Davis, drums, vibraslap.

(laughs) Is this “Fame”?

Of course!

Because I arranged this! One of my favorite Bowie tunes. And when Bowie redid the tune in th 90s, he did such a cool music video that I used to watch on MTV.

That’s a beautiful arrangement you did of “Fame” for Axiom Quartet. You did a lot of things with the music; it’s not a predictable, note-for-note rendition, but the tune and the hooks are all there. What are some challenges you encounter when arranging something like “Fame” for string quartet?

One thing I keep in mind is that I’m trying to make the music sound like it was originally written for a string quartet. String instruments are not guitars; they’re not going to be able to do all of the things a guitarist can do. So, what can I do to get those effects across?

One of the things that can be a cliché is the musicians tapping on their instruments. That can be cool and effective, but if that’s going to be how you mimic the drum set, just get a drum set!

Your arrangement of “Fame” is in a different key than the original.

Yes, you have to move things so it sounds good on the instrument and their ranges. For this type of music, I like open strings and will try to put it in a key in which you’ll get more open strings, because that gives you more resonance. The instruments will ring, and you’ll get that bigger sound.

(Giacinto Scelsi; photo courtesty of Archivio Fondazione Isabella Scelsi.)

Giacinto Scelsi

“The Piano Trio No. 2 in E minor, for Violin, Cello, and Piano, Op. 67” by Dmitri Shostakovich (from Trio, 1988, CBS Records), Isaac Stern, violin; Yo-Yo Ma, cello; Emanuel Ax, piano.

A few people come to mind . . .

What’s the instrument?

It’s a string instrument, obviously. I want to say it’s cello.

You’re right!

Okay. Is this Kaija Saariaho?

No. Good guess.

European?

Italian.

Oh! Is it Scelsi?

Yes!

I knew it was a spectral-ist of some sort.

I noticed as soon as I cued this up, we were both really mesmerized by the sound. What were you hearing while listening to this?

The ever-slight change in the pitch. There’s this slight undulation in there. But the thing about it is in order to make that successful, you need space initially for that note just to exist. So then, you start to hear these slight changes. You get that tension, and that ever-so-slight glissando that keeps bringing you back to that note. It’s such a neat way of building drama. But you have to be a patient listener to be able to appreciate that kind of music. If you need (sings the first four notes of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5), it’s gonna be tricky.

Well, why not enjoy both?

That’s right! I agree.

One of the cool things about Scelsi’s music is I can imagine him almost singing it. There’s a sort of natural inflection to it, the gestures he’s writing for the instrument.

If you’re going to school to become a composer, and this is the direction you want to go in, can you pretty much forget about having a successful career?

If you’re trying to force people to write what they don’t want to write, it’s just not going to go well. A good teacher will set expectations for a student. There’s nothing wrong with saying, “This piece (you’ve composed) is hard, and maybe half of the cellists out there will be able to play it.” If they’re comfortable with that, then that’s great. I find that if composers are true to what they want to do, that’s when they’re the most successful.

That’s true for all of the arts.

Absolutely. And you can incorporate all of these things into your music. I like Brahms, but I’m not a huge fan of his symphonies. They don’t resonate with me. They’re really well written, and I can talk about that. But they don’t elicit an emotional response from me, for whatever reason. But by studying them, I learned what to do and not to do at the same time.

Zero in on the thing that isn’t working for you and figure out why.

Exactly. I mean, there are bad pieces of music. You know Beethoven’s Wellington’s Victory?

Yes.

Oh, it’s bad. (laughter) But we can identify why it’s poorly written. You can’t win them all. I certainly haven’t!

You navigate different musical worlds very freely. We’ve talked about wind band music, about pop music, about Ives, and I hear all of these things in your music.

I think it’s because, growing up, I played in a variety of ensembles. I played in the orchestra, the marching band, and the jazz band. I was in a Salsa band when I got out of college. All of that stuff affects you. There’s no reason you can’t do all of that, no reason to pigeonhole yourself.

(Sheku and Isata Kanneh-Mason; photo by David Bazemore.)

Camille Saint-Saëns

“The Swan” by Camille Saint-Saëns (from Carnival, 2020, Decca), Sheku Kanneh-Mason, Cello; Isata Kanneh-Mason, Piano.

(laughs) I wonder who it is?

It’s not David Bowie!

It’s funny, because I hear students play this all the time at our house, so I don’t hear it often with piano accompaniment. I have thought about doing this with Symphony North.

How long have you been conducting Symphony North?

I’m in my third year. We’re doing a new piece of mine in the fall.

I selected this piece thinking about the Wild Symphony project. You were tasked to orchestrate music by Dan Brown, who had these melodies, or right and left-hand pieces of music, correct?

Yes. These things were played on synthesizers. So, all I got were sound files, nothing notated, and I had to transcribe all of them. Although the latter ones were done on the computer and Brown was able to provide me with sheet music. That was a big project.

Did Brown give you feedback and direction as you worked on orchestrating these pieces?

The movement that became “Wonderous Whale,” we were trying to figure out a counter melody, and I had written something that was pretty complicated. But someone at Parma, or maybe it was Dan, sang something (simpler), and I just did that.

I remember in the “Dancing Boar” movement, adding this sort of (loudly) WHAP! and that chord was a little dissonant, and I got the note saying, don’t use a tritone at the top. Because that might be a little too harsh for the audience we’re going for.

Wild Symphony is still being performed all over the world!

Yes, I’m conducting it for the first time in May with Symphony North.

(Carmen Lundy; photo by Victor Dlamini.)

Published in 2016, Freedom of Expression: Interviews Withe Women in Jazz is a collection of interviews I conducted with 37 female musicians of all ages, nationalities, and races and representing nearly every style of jazz one can imagine. The interviewees include Eliane Elias, Terri Lyne Carrington, Anat Cohen, Diane Schuur, Cheryl Bentyne, Mindi Abair, Connie Crothers, and many other incredible musicians.

Since launching Night and Day, I have been sharing excerpts of interviews from the book. In celebration of Women’s History Month, please enjoy these excerpts from my conversation with singer, composer, and 2026 NEA Jazz Master, Carmen Lundy.

Singer, composer, multi-instrumentalist, and visual artist Carmen Lundy is one of the first musicians I interviewed for this project. At the end of our conversation, after I turned off the digital recorder, I mentioned that I was stuck on trying to come up with a title for the book, and that “Women in Jazz” just wasn’t going to cut it. She told me she believed the title of the book would come out of one of the interviews, that somebody was going to say something, and it would be apparent that that was the perfect title. Of course, she was right. The title would come from my interview with drummer and composer Terri Lyne Carrington, who quoted Duke Ellington’s definition of jazz as “freedom of expression.” The complete title came together via a brainstorming session with writer and musician Michael Veal, and I made a mental note I would have to tell Carmen that her prediction had come true.

I am not surprised Lundy has a gift for clairvoyance. Many musicians do. There is an otherworldly, sometimes visionary quality to Lundy’s lyrics and music, as well as the production that surrounds her distinctive voice. On her track “Requiem for Kathryn” from her 2009 album Solamente, a self-produced album of “demos” on which Lundy plays every instrument, her sparse, wordless vocal somehow speaks to both the sadness and hope for deliverance that comes when someone close to you has passed.

Lundy describes herself as “multi-repertoire,” a description that’s more than accurate when considering the breadth of her artistry and musical résumé. She composes much of the repertoire she sings, and at the time of this writing, has written or co-written over 80 songs. She also composes and produces music for film and television, has acted on stage, is a visual artist, and conducts jazz clinics for singers and instrumentalists across the country. Lundy certainly fits the mold of a traditional jazz singer, but at the same time manages to upend any and all definitions of that term.

Chris Becker (CB): When did you first begin playing a musical instrument?

Carmen Lundy (CL): I think I began playing an instrument around the age of four. I grew up in a family in Miami where every house had a piano, which wasn’t so unusual. I remember this day very vividly: I came in from whatever — kindergarten? — to stay at my grandparents’ while my parents were at work. And I went straight to the piano, and I started to do whatever! I remember getting a spanking and being told to just go home! “Go home!” you know? [laughs] So I have this vivid memory of shaking up everybody in the house, because I would just not leave that piano alone!

I was in love with the instrument. My aunt played piano for the choir and for the gospel group my mother sang in, the Apostolic Singers, in Miami. So my first real introduction to the instrument was through my aunt, who played gospel piano and still does to this very day. All of my initial chords and my understanding [of music] came from that gospel thing. Strong left hand, the inverted triads—all that stuff.

My mother arranged for me to get piano lessons when I was around the age of six. My brother [Curtis Lundy] was taking drum lessons at the age of five. I pretty much stayed with [the piano] until I realized how everybody would get so excited when my mother sang! I thought, “Okay, I wanna do that!” If I was a good girl, I got to watch my mother’s group rehearse. That was when I started to notice that one singer had a certain part that the other singer didn’t have. When I understood that there were harmonies, I think that’s when I said, “Oh, that’s how that goes!” And it wouldn’t be the melody, but the middle part that would be more interesting to me. I thought if I would learn that middle part, then maybe one day they would let me sing in their group. They never did! [laughs] But that’s beside the point.

I think I was around the age of 10 or 11 when the church I was attending started a junior choir. So now you got all the daughters of all the singers in the gospel group with my mother leading. . . . We were all now of age to start the junior choir. And I was terribly interested in doing everything but the lead! I just loved the whole idea of being the harmony, you know, to be a supporting voice. It seemed to be a little more challenging than just singing the melody that everybody already knew. To really support the melody was more interesting to me.

And as that junior choir began to go into different churches, do more special events, I kind of stepped out and thought that I could possibly also be a soloist. So somewhere between the ages of 11 and 12, I knew that was it! That was it.

CB: It struck me as you were describing hearing those inner voices, how that very much describes the ear of an arranger or the ear of a composer. When you think back to those early days, do you think that maybe you were not only becoming the singer that you are today but the composer as well?

CL: I don’t know. That’s a great question. No one’s ever asked me that question. I don’t know if the composer in me, if that seed was planted that early on. I don’t know! It’s a great question, it really is!

I’d have to say that as far as discovering that there was a potential composer in me, [that happened] when I was in college, and had switched my major from the opera side to jazz. There were requirements: composition, arranging, and improvisation, and being a jazz major, I had to take those courses. The composition teacher I had and the way that teacher introduced me to composition had a lot to do with it.

The musicians who played in my bands at that time were also an influence. They were writing their own tunes, and they’d say, “Carmen, I’ve got this tune, and it goes like this. There are no words. All you have to do is sing this melody along with the guitar line.” Okay, no problem! Singing my classmates’ and colleagues’ tunes allowed me to hear me, you know? I got to be the one to introduce the composition. So there was something intriguing about that!

CB: As part of your instruction for young singers, do you encourage them to compose music?

CL: Yes. [The emphasis on] composing is the result of spending the last 12 years or so at the Kennedy Center in D.C., representing Betty Carter’s Jazz Ahead program, along with other faculty. It was Betty’s request to continue to press upon the students the value of writing their own music.

As people, we’re more alike sometimes than we want to believe we are. Particularly when it comes to how you render the truth in a melody with or without words. I know for a fact that I decided to sing more original music when I got to New York. I was doing all the gigs and singing all the standards and club dates, doing my great arrangements of Ellington tunes, Mancini tunes, and everybody else. Everybody knew them and loved them, “Isn’t she great?” And I just realized, being in New York from the late 1970s and into the early 1990s, living there, developing my craft, honing in on it and establishing a reputation as a musician as well as a singer, I realized Betty Carter was around the corner, Sarah Vaughn was down in the Village, and Carmen McCrae had just returned from a world tour, so who would want to hear me, you know? What makes me so special? The greats are here! So what do I do? What’s going to distinguish me from them? I’m not going to build a career singing Ella Fitzgerald solos, it’s not gonna happen!

I realized that to distinguish myself, I should sing songs that come from my time, of my experience, and not so much of what has somehow come to be called “The Great American Songbook.” So as a composer, I started to stick my neck out even a little bit farther by singing new songs. Just like Billie Holiday did when she introduced songs that didn’t exist before her. “God Bless the Child,” “Billie’s Blues,” and so many others, you know? “Don’t Explain,” “Fine and Mellow,” “Lover Man”—these are songs Billie Holiday brought to us.

I just kind of went with that. It felt right. And now after having over 80 published songs of my own—I’ve collaborated of course, from time to time— that’ s quite a body of work in this particular genre of music, you know?

I don’t know if it’s fortunate or unfortunate for me to find that there’s this definition of a jazz singer as “someone who sings songs from another time.” Jazz singer: “Somebody who scats!” It’s similar to what we’ve done with the classical singer, where what defines you is the repertoire of another century. I find that this has made for a unique kind of distinction among my peers.

I hope that at the end of the day, someone will recognize the contribution that I’ve made not only to keeping the bar high for jazz vocalizing, but also that I’ve given some of the young people behind me, including some of the artists who have covered my tunes, something else to say!

Freedom of Expression: Interviews With Women in Jazz is available for purchase from Amazon and The Jung Center of Houston Bookstore.

1. Jamal Cyrus at Inman Gallery

(Jamal Cyrus, Speak, Brotha, Speak!, fossilized coral, microphone stand, microphone, 2025; photo by Thomas R. DuBrock.)

This complex exhibit, featuring several textile and sculptural assemblages by Houston-born artist Jamal Cyrus, closes Saturday, March 21. So if you haven’t seen it yet, you’ll need to hustle over to Inman Gallery to experience it in person.

On one level, the show’s poetic and philosophical title, how you sound, refers to how profoundly music and its history — especially that of hip-hop and jazz — has impacted Cyrus’ practice. (Houston artists Tierney Malone and El Franco Lee also incorporate jazz and hip-hop, respectively, into their work.) Cyrus has even performed in a free improvisatory, ritualistic, auto-destructive context, doing his best to play these assemblages as one would play a traditional musical instrument, while accompanied by some extraordinary musicians, including drummer Jamire Williams. (There is a line here that goes back to David Hammons and Marcel Duchamp.)

With that in mind, the work pictured, Speak, Brotha, Speak!, takes its title from the live album Speak, Brother, Speak!, recorded in 1962, by the Max Roach Quartet, which included the legendary drummer and activist, Max Roach, Cliff Jordan on tenor saxophone, Mal Waldron on piano, and Eddie Khan on upright bass. While microphones, cables, and a small mixer are components of this assemblage, there are no speakers or headphones. No way to hear the sound of this fossilized coral, except by using your imagination and your inner ear. While it has been said that the coral is a reference to the Middle Passage, one can’t help but think of how climate change is threatening our oceans and has signaled the very real possibility of our extinction. In this piece, Cyrus is calling for us to dream of a better future. (At least that’s my interpretation.)

2. Hunt Slonem at Laura Rathe Fine Art

(Hunt Slonem, Parade Fluffle on Gold, oil on canvas, 2026.)

It’s Spring and the bunnies are back! Just in time for Easter, Laura Rathe Fine Art presents Garden Party, a solo exhibition of paintings and sculptural works by internationally renowned and collected neo-expressionist artist Hunt Slonem, across two of their gallery locations. The first opened last night in Houston at the River Oaks District location on March 19th. The second complementary exhibit goes up at Laura Rathe’s Dallas Design District location on March 21st. Both exhibits are up through April 26.

When I say, “internationally renowned,” that’s not hyperbole: Slonem’s works are in the permanent collections of 250 museums worldwide, including the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, the Whitney, the Miro Foundation, and the New Orleans Museum of Art. And Texans love and buy this man’s work. Born in 1951 in Kittery, Maine, Slonem may be best known for his ongoing series of bunnies, as well as flowers, birds, and butterflies. Now 74, Hunt has no intention of slowing down. He maintains a kind of transcendent ritualistic practice, painting every day, all day, which, according to Rathe, “Keeps him in balance.” (You can read my recent interview with Rathe, the first in a new series of interviews with Houston gallerists, on Glasstire.)

I must admit my first reaction to seeing Slonem’s work in person, an installation of bunny portraits, several of them, hung in rows and all in antique frames, was something like, “What the hell?” But the more I read about Slonem, and the more I look at his paintings, I can see that the love he has for the natural world and all of its creatures is real, and there may be a message beneath the obsessive quality of the work. And what about the repetition? In nature, nothing repeats verbatim, and everything is always changing. Look longer, and you also realize how such charming images can belie an artist’s formidable technique. I imagine Slonem is simply happy to bring something new into the world on a daily basis.

3. MANUAL at Moody Gallery

(MANUAL, Videology, 1983-84, printed 2004, suite of 15 digital chromogenic photographs.)

And now for something completely different. MANUAL: The Collaboration of Ed Hill and Suzanne Bloom, 1974-2024, on view at Moody Gallery through April 25, is a museum-worthy multi-room, multi-disciplinary installation; a survey that hangs together across time and is designed to scramble the brains of young and old alike. I checked the exhibit out earlier this week, and I plan to revisit the show soon. There’s a lot to take in.

Installed across three areas of the gallery, the works on display stretch back to the early 70s, and it is fascinating to consider how Hill and Bloom’s work has always explored the potential of the cutting-edge technology of its time, especially advances in photography, film, video, and digital media. Hill and Bloom’s first collaboration, Hand Series (1974), a series of eight black and white, gelatin silver prints of hands engaged in some kind of performance or strange ritual, feels very emblematic of the cross-disciplinary spirit of the 70s. In contrast, MANUAL’s still life photos of weathered, antiquated books (another type of technology) are resolutely digital, yet very painterly and old school in how they are composed. The “hand” of the artist is always apparent in Hill and Bloom’s work, as is their reverence for the natural world. For reasons I can’t explain, while taking in the work from different vantage points, I found myself pondering my impermanence. Not only technology, but life itself, has accelerated since the 1970s. That said, I feel like MANUAL was never trying to keep up with it all, but respect the moment, and share with us what happens when we slow down and take the time, sometimes a great deal of time, to explore, our destination unknown.

+ Music for 18 Musicians

I don’t want this to sound snobby, but it blows my mind that there are people who have never, ever heard Steve Reich’s 1976 composition, Music for 18 Musicians, a seminal work in the history of minimalism and contemporary music across genres, including classical, rock, jazz, and electronica.

On Thursday, March 26, at MATCH, Houston ensembles Loop38 and Aperio, Music of the Americas will perform Music for 18 Musicians to commemorate the 50th anniversary of its groundbreaking 1976 premiere. That performance and its 1978 recording helped bring minimalism, what was then a new musical language, into the cultural spotlight and (for better or worse) the hallowed halls of academia. That the vanguard of this language, including La Monte Young, Philip Glass, Terry Riley, and Reich, were roundly criticized for daring to upend centuries of Western European musical tradition seems like a distant dream now, as minimalism has seeped its way into film music, dance clubs, and yoga studios. But Music for 18 Musicians is most definitely not “background music.” Is it tonal? Yes. Mesmerizing? Yep. Can you dance to it? Well, David Bowie described it as “Balinese gamelan music cross-dressing as minimalism” and, upon hearing it live in the late 70s, was “floored” by “the gymnastics involved in executing Reich’s tag-team approach to shift work.” In performance, Music for 18 Musicians is as much a dance as it is a great piece of music. If you’ve never heard it before, now is your chance!

(Store owner and social activist Macario Ramirez.)

Sadly, Casa Ramirez FOLKART Gallery — a Houston institution — is closing. The following is from Casa Ramirez’s Facebook page, with details about its farewell celebrations happening this weekend, followed by an interview I did back in 2011 with the gallery’s founder, Macario Ramirez.

“SATURDAY, MARCH 14, 2026: We’ll be celebrating our customers one last time at The Last Fiesta from 11 to 4 p.m. Music, as always, by the phenomenal Jesus & Maria•BOSSA II, plus refreshments, our traditional tribute to Los Vaqueros: The Original Cowboys — and bargain prices on many items in our remaining inventory! Store opens at 10 a.m.

“SUNDAY, MARCH 15, 2026: Don’t miss visiting and saying ‘Hasta luego’ — until we meet again. We’re open from 12 noon-5 p.m. with sales on remaining merchandise before closing the doors —and a chapter on — our retail business.

“We’re looking forward to honoring our friendships, our history, and our future in the modest place where so many memories have been made —241 W. 19th St. in the Heights.”

(Artwork from Casa Ramirez FOLKART Gallery.)

Store owner and social activist Macario Ramirez keeps traditions of Dia de los Muertos alive

Note: What follows is an interview I conducted for CultureMap Houston with Macario Ramirez in October 2011. Macario passed away in June 2020 at the age of 86.

Owned and operated by Macario Ramirez and wife Chrissie Dickerson Ramirez, Casa Ramirez FOLKART Gallery has celebrated and educated the public about Latino culture and art since the it was first established in the early 1980’s. Mexico, Texas and other areas of the Southwest are represented in their collection of affordable, often locally crafted art, clothing, and jewelry.

The gallery also stocks a collection of books in English and Spanish with subjects ranging from Mexican cooking to the history of social activism in the Latino communities.

October has (finally) arrived and along with it the Mexican holiday Dia de los Muertos, also known as Day of the Dead. Macario Ramirez describes Dia de los Muertos, a holiday that combines pre-Colombian indigenous traditions with Catholic iconography, as “…a personal expression of love to our ancestors.”

Activities in the weeks leading up to Dia de los Muertos include the construction of altars or “ofrendas” designed to memorialize family and friends who have passed and welcome them back in their non-material spiritual forms. Altar offerings for this annual feast include food, sweets, soft drinks and even alcohol to feed your loved ones now in their spiritual form.

What follows in a conversation with Macario Ramirez about the inspiration for Casa Ramirez gallery, Dia de los Muertos and his commitment to social and political causes.

All in the family

Chris Becker: Your father started a business similar to Casa Ramirez back in 1937 in San Antonio. Can you tell me a little bit more about it?

Macario Ramirez: My father was a part time jeweler…he knew jewelry but he didn’t have the money to stock himself with gold and silver although gold at that time was cheaper. But he did other things in jewelry, designer bracelets, earrings and necklaces. And he did other things to keep a family of eight fed. There were eight of us including himself. So that’s where I get my experience of Casa Ramirez, you know? The imports and folk art and crafts, and the good causes that I’m very much involved with. Locally, I’ve always been involved with good causes.

CM: Were good causes a part of your father’s life as well?

MR: My father although he was busy earning money for the kids, he encouraged us to work in the community and help out as we can. So Casa Ramirez is a very unique folk art place, but also we’re known for teaching the culture…but the good causes were also to support community projects.

When my father died in 1984…well, the shock is there for everybody…but I remember our life with him, how kind he was. My mother also…I was in Mexico (but living in Houston) when I was told my father was not well and expected maybe to pass. I was there as an advisor to a local group of entrepreneurs, Americans, who maybe wanted to do business in Mexico.

CB: Was this was before you opened Casa Ramirez?

MR: Yes. I had a chance even then of going back to Washington D.C. and traveling throughout the country and doing things in the Latino community, and had some offers for some positions. But it didn’t appeal to me. I wanted to come back (to Houston).

So I opened up an import place, a folk art place named Casa Ramirez after my father and my family.

We’ve grown nicely. We know how to handle the business. I know my father would be happy seeing me – what I’m doing now. Not only the entrepreneurial thing, but also the sharing of the culture with people in general.

I saw the Latinos losing their culture as they do in many places, because you kind of have to do American things, assimilate their culture. And I resisted that. I said I’m going to keep doing what I believe in. And at the same time start a business to support my efforts.

CM: So your mother and father didn’t live to see the shop?

MR: My mother did. My father saw parts of it and really enjoyed it. He saw it just as I was beginning develop it. He was very pleased. I had been doing all this other technical, writing, research and administrative work for many years, so it was kind of a relief doing this!

It’s evolved. It’s well known. We don’t take it for granted. When I was a little boy, he’d always say: “You’re good but don’t let it go to your head!” And I know what he meant!

CM: With Casa Ramirez, you’re helping to perpetuate and educate people about Mexican culture.

MR: I saw us losing that. I saw the Anglo community not understanding us. And it saddened me. We’re a very vibrant culture, the Latino and Mexican American culture and I wanted to share it. Right off I started teaching it.

I do eight to 10 exhibits on culture and traditions and I teach the cultures and traditions usually right here (at the gallery).

Dia de los Muertos

CM: Can ofrendas be a tool for education? A way of providing some history of Mexico and its culture?

MR: Most cultures of the world have had a way of remembering their ancestors. There’s some rituals combined into their religions. As a child I was doing the Halloween thing. Get sheets from the bed, put a mask on…I thought it was fun. But my father didn’t like it…because it detracted from November 1st and 2nd. That’s when we celebrate our ancestors. November 1st for children, November 2nd for adults.

There are a lot of personal items you put on altars or take to the cemeteries (the evenings of November 1 and 2). These objects really connect you spiritually to the memory of that loved one.

People enjoy learning about (this) and we almost lost it! I feel that we are credited for a revival. But we didn’t originate it. It goes back to the Aztecs, to other cultures…it’s that old. We almost lost it here in the Southwest.

Social Activism

MR: I’ve been involved with many movements. I’m old enough now to have experienced the Chicano movement in San Antonio, South Texas and California. I mean actively, hands on. César Chávez I considered a friend. And my family we were migrant workers…and that was very educational for me. So that stayed with me, that feeling to want to help the immigrant. I call them undocumented.

I don’t call them (immigrants) illegals. I tell people sometimes, “All of us Americans are illegal.” Because we came from another place! The Indian was standing there saying: “Who are these white people?”

I’m glad we as Americans are here. I love Mexico. We really love it and try to get there as often as we can. But I was born a Mexican American to Mexican parents. And that was very fulfilling and rich…I’m an American.

CB: Given your experience with the Chicano movement, when you look at what’s going on in New York and Occupy Wall Street, does it remind you of that time period?

MR: Oh, yeah! I’m just hoping they keep it up. And it keeps going. I just don’t want them to be discouraged. I used to protest in Washington D.C. on behalf of the migrant workers. I’m a member of the migrant workers in California. I donate to them and I sell a lot of their stuff here to help them out.

So when I saw these young people, coming out and protesting Wall Street, in front of Chase bank, I said: “Yes! Go for it!” Wall Street is taking notice!

(Twyla Tharp, third from the right, and dancers.)

First, greetings and thank you to all the new recent subscribers of Night and Day, which features in-depth interviews with artists, musicians, and other creative individuals; DownBeat magazine-styled blindfold tests, complete with Spotify playlists; and occasional outbursts, like the following piece, that are more autobiographical and experimental in tone. I truly appreciate the support.

In September 2024, I met choreographer Twyla Tharp.

Okay, that’s not exactly true. In the summer of 2024, I emailed Twyla Tharp—indirectly, through a contact at Performing Arts Houston who forwarded my message to Opus 3 Artists. I had a few questions for Tharp for an article I was writing about her company’s September 28 performance at the Wortham Theater Center in Houston. Along with Isadora Duncan, Martha Graham, and Trisha Brown, Tharp belongs to the pantheon of modern-era American choreographers who transcended the limits placed on women in their respective eras and pushed the domain of dance into uncharted territory. That we are the beneficiaries of such innovation is not lost on Tharp, who famously said: “When I began, you were either a ballet dancer or a modern dancer. I helped make it possible to be both.” You can clearly see what she’s talking about in these short excerpts from her 1986 piece, In the Upper Room:

I’ve been a fan of Tharp’s work since I was a teenager, when I saw her 1981 piece The Catherine Wheel on PBS. It would be several years before I would compose music for dance, but after watching Tharp’s incredible, frighteningly fast-paced choreography set to David Byrne’s driving, avant Afro-funk score, I had caught the bug. After finding out her company was making a stop in Houston, I welcomed the opportunity to interview a major, groundbreaking artist whose work had so profoundly impacted my life.

Tharp’s replies to my thoughtful questions were a bit terse. Not unhelpful, just short and straight to the point. So while I had hoped for an in-depth conversation with Tharp in real time, I did the best with what I had and produced a good, no, great piece of writing for Houston CityBook that those familiar and not familiar with Tharp would enjoy reading.

Fast forward to the September 28 performance. During the intermission, I looked across the aisle from where my wife and I were sitting, and spotted a pair of colorful athletic sneakers, and realized . . . Whoa! That’s Twyla Tharp! After some hesitation, I screwed up my courage, walked over to Tharp and, as politely as possible, interrupted the conversation she was having, introduced myself as the writer with whom she had been in touch, and thanked her for bringing her company to Houston.

Tharp said absolutely nothing. Didn’t make eye contact either, although she did nod while I was speaking. Once I had run out of things to say, Tharp’s companion smiled at me as if to say, “That’s it, dude. Thanks for stopping by.” I smiled and returned to my seat.

Tharp’s book The Collaborative Habit: Life Lessons for Working Together is one of those dog-eared, Post-it-filled books I keep within easy reach, as it recounts in detail what can and usually goes wrong when creating a new work, from the ground up, and bringing it to life onstage. (It’s a lot shorter, and, in my opinion, more practical with its advice than Tharp’s bestseller The Creative Habit, but you can be the judge of that.)

At the end of my favorite chapter, “Working with a Remote Collaborator,” Tharp describes working with Elvis Costello to create a new dance for the Miami City Ballet. Costello misses two hard deadlines for the music and after offering to bow out of the gig, ends up delivering his score in pieces via email. After a series of challenging rehearsals, the premiere doesn’t quite come together how she hoped, but regardless, Tharp is required to show up for the post-opening night gala party:

“I have to work hard to suppress a scowl. It’s not that I don’t like social events —though I don’t — but that I am in a post-premiere snit about the performance. I want to scream, ‘The thing is now what you saw tonight!’ But noone wants to hear that — certainly none of my collaborators. So I struggle to get over myself.”

After reading that, you may be rolling your eyes, but I think it’s very honest expression of vulnerability. In another chapter, she writes:

“Noel Coward’s advice for handling nagging conflicts and other troubles applies here: ‘Rise above it.’ Pretend nothing ever went wrong. He knew.”

As a composer, I’ve been there, as have most musicians and dancers I know.

Which brings me back to introducing myself in person to Tharp. Was she unhappy with what she was seeing onstage? Maybe. Maybe not. But if my attempt to introduce myself and start a conversation felt awkward, it would have felt more awkward if I had not been proud of what I had written.

(Twyla Tharp rehearsing Tank Dive; photo by Robert Barry.)

In her autobiography, When Push Comes to Shove, Tharp describes the morning after the premiere of her very first dance, Tank Dive (1965), when she raced out to get a copy of The New York Times and was stunned and disappointed to see the work had not been reviewed. Later, she realized this was a good thing. “There was no financial remuneration and little attention paid to me those first five years,” writes Tharp. “So, I simply went on asking myself, ‘Do you want to do this, or don’t you?’” Sixty years later, it’s a question Tharp still asks herself. She’s also just fine with the idea of creating work without the expectations of an audience in mind. “This is the only way to approach work,” says Tharp. “Meeting expectations can be accomplished through effort and having chops, but ultimately, you judge your own work.”

I don’t disagree. But for any artist, be they a dancer, writer, or composer, once the work is done and out in the world, a kind word or two is welcome and goes a long way.

(Kellye Gray; Photo by Rachel Espinoza)

An entire unreleased album of Prince covers by late great Houston jazz singer Kellye Gray was released February 22, 2022. Kellye did reach out to me when my book Freedom of Expression: Interviews With Women in Jazz came out, and man, do I regret missing the opportunity to interview her for that project. She’s a hell of a singer with so many stories to tell.

Here is what I wrote about Kellye for Houston CityBook. Big thank you to Lucy Anderson, Henry Darragh and David Craig for taking time to speak with me about Kellye and her artistry. (Scroll down to hear Purple Gray on Spotify.)

IN 2018, WHEN Dallas-born, Houston-based jazz singer Kellye Gray went into the EAR Studio in Austin to record Purple Gray: A Prince Offering, an entire album of songs by Prince, she did not know it would be her last project. In early December of that year, shortly after tracking eight of Prince’s songs, Gray was diagnosed with breast cancer, and a few weeks later, she was gone.

For fans of Gray’s inimitable, no holds barred style of singing, the loss was devastating, and her swan song, Purple Gray was stuck in limbo. Until now.

Set for digital release on Feb. 22, which would have been Gray’s 68th birthday, Purple Gray will finally see the light of day, thanks to the efforts of Gray’s close friend and soulmate Lucy Anderson. In March 2019, after over a year of mourning, Anderson and audio engineer Erich Avinger got to work, using email correspondence between Gray and Avinger as a guide for mixing and mastering the album. Given the fact that for several years Anderson and Gray were inseparable, listening back to Gray’s deeply felt singing on such iconic Prince ballads as “The Beautiful Ones” and “Nothing Compares To U” wasn’t easy. “It was gut wrenching, actually,” says Anderson. “Finishing the album didn’t happen without a lot of tears and tissues.”

Born in Dallas in 1954, Gray came through a rough childhood, including a period of time during which she and her siblings lived in an orphanage after their parents divorced. She picked up the guitar in her teens, and later became a part of Houston’s improv comedy scene, where she shared the stage with Sam Kinison and Bill Hicks, and used her voice to create sound effects, similar in spirit to the scat vocals of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. Gray gradually built a reputation as a powerful singer and riveting live performer, whose diverse repertoire included jazz standards, Burt Bacharach ballads, gutbucket blues numbers and vintage country songs.

Meanwhile, Gray’s live performances and in-between song banter became the stuff of legend. Growing up gay in a less enlightened time in Texas, and dealing with the sexist, misogynistic behavior of male jazz musicians gave Gray a hard edge, though audiences both gay and straight simply saw her as strong woman who happened to be a superb musician. “She could really work an audience,” confirms Houston bassist David Craig, who played and toured with Gray for many years. “She could be scathing and just rip people up, but she could also be really sweet and engaging. And once she got the crowd in the palm of her hands, that was it.” Houston pianist and vocalist Henry Darragh met Gray at Cezanne in 2004, and quickly became a fan and a friend. “As a vocalist, Kellye was powerful and dynamic, and very adventurous,” says Darragh, whose original ballad “My Friend Kellye” pays tribute to Gray’s gentler side.

With songs ranging from Prince’s biggest hits (“Kiss”) and deep cuts (“All The Critics Love U In New York”), Purple Gray is a both celebration of Gray’s artistry, and a heartfelt tribute to another musical genius who left this world too soon. “Kellye was a visionary,” says Anderson. “Very tuned in and empathetic, with a contagious, childlike enthusiasm, which is why people loved her.”

(Bisong Art Gallery; photo by Carla Bisong. Art work by Zahra Ali.)

What’s missing in this photo? The gallerist! But what exactly is a gallerist and what do they actually do?

Over the years, I’ve interviewed dozens, maybe hundreds, of visual artists, and many of those published conversations were coordinated by gallerists, brick and mortar property owners who represent the work of creative individuals working in the plastic arts. Now it’s time to flip the script, and pull the veil back on a profession that can seem mysterious to even the most seasoned art lover. Spread out over the course of the next six months, Glasstire will publish my interviews with Houston gallerists Laura Rathe (Laura Rathe Fine Art), Yvonne Garcia (Hooks-Epstein Galleries), Heidi Vaughan (Heidi Vaughan Fine Art), Carla Bisong (Bisong Art Gallery), Robert McClain (McClain Gallery), and David Shelton (David Shelton Gallery). These six individuals are a true cross-section of personal histories, perspectives, and aesthetics. They each have personality in abundance and possess a unique “eye” for art.

Previously, I’ve interviewed Janice Bond (Art Is Bond), and wrote a personal, first-person tribute to the late Anya Tish as her gallery was getting ready to close. But this is the first project where I’ve selected a group of gallerists, with the intention of asking a handful of similarly worded questions.

One major source of inspiration for the series is The Art Dealers, a compilation of first-person narratives by 32 New York City-based art dealers. (It’s interesting that the title “Art Dealer” was preferred over gallerist or gallery owner.) The interviewees include several well-known figures in the art world, including Mary Boone, Leo Castelli, Ivan Karp, Annina Nosei, and Holly Solomon. The book’s subtitle, “The Powers Behind the Scene Talk about the Business of Art,” speaks to the time in which it was published (1984), and the general public’s perception of how a gallery owner relates to artists, collectors, arts writers, and electricians . . .

Another important point: the gallerists I’ll be talking to work in the for-profit realm.

In my experience, arts writers tend to present the gallery world as an idealized ecosystem of mini museums, rather than a commerce establishment. I’ve always found it strange to write about a gallery exhibit as if it were solely a community-driven endeavor, while ignoring the fact that the gallery owner and the artist have a business agreement, with the hope of selling some art. So, in each interview, I will ask questions about the business of art.

And speaking of art, interviewing is an art, and a practice I continue to hone and develop. Over the years, recording and listening back to my interviews has been extremely helpful; it’s not always pleasant to hear your own voice, but that voice is yours, and knowing what to say and what not to say and when to not say anything at all is, in my experience, crucial to a healthy conversation. There’s that backhanded quote, “You listen long enough to say you’ve heard,” which, for me, nails the importance of knowing when to speak, and when to shut the f-ck up. But I’d be lying if I said I’d mastered this skill!

Once you have that conversation transcribed, the next step is editing the copy. In the introduction to his excellent book, Tony Allen: An Autobiography of the Master Drummer of Afrobeat, author (and musician) Michael Veal explains: “Transforming raw conversation — no matter how captivating — into a narrative that is simultaneously an authentic representation of the subject and compelling on the page is a unique challenge to this kind of writing.” The challenge is the same with the traditional question-and-answer format. I work hard to ensure my interviews to read like two people having a relaxed conversation.

You can be the judge. For a preview of what to expect, check out my interview with gallerist Kerry Inman on the Glasstire website and the interviews I’ve published here on Night and Day.

(Matt Lammers; photo by Natalie Gaynor.)

Welcome to a new “Blindfold Test” for Night and Day with violinist Matt Lammers.

Originated by Downbeat magazine, a “blindfold test” is a listening test that challenges the featured artist to identify and discuss the music and musicians performing on selected recordings. No information is given to the artist in advance of the test.

I first heard Houston violinist Matt Lammers with the Axiom Quartet, who, for their 2025-2026 season, have been performing the complete cycle of Soviet composer Dmitri Shostakovich’s 15 string quartets. Each concert, including this Sunday’s performance of Shostakovich’s Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth Quartets, takes place at Houston Sängerhalle, a 200-seat venue inside the historic Heights Christian Church. This series is the first live presentation of the complete cycle in Houston and a rare opportunity to experience the quartets performed in sequence by a single professional ensemble in a setting as intimate as your living room. “We’re on the audience’s level, surrounded by them, and facing each other while playing,” says Lammers. “We’re the ones playing the notes. But physically and spiritually, everybody in the room is part of what’s going on in the ensemble.”

Lammers also performs with Mercury Chamber Orchestra and Kinetic Ensemble, and is a co-founder and director of the Opus 1 Chamber Music School, a pre-college chamber music, music theory, and masterclass training program. Given his commitment to music education and mentorship, I knew Lammers would enjoy the challenge of a “blindfold test” and welcome a focused discussion about the violin and how it is played across genres. Of course, this being Night and Day, I selected tracks I figured he’d be familiar with, but threw in a couple of curves, which only expanded our conversation into unexpected territory.

(Scroll down for a Spotify playlist of the following tracks.)

(Axiom Quartet; left to right: Katie Carrington, Patrick Moore, Timothy Peters, Matt Lammers; photo by Pin Lim.)

(Arvo Part; photo by Birgit Püve, courtesy of the Arvo Pärt Centre.)

Arvo Pärt

“Fratres” by Arvo Pärt (from Tabula Rasa, 1984, ECM), Gidon Kremer, violin; Keith Jarrett, piano.

(Immediately) Arvo Pärt. This is Fratres, right?

Yes! The violinist is Gidon Kremer. The pianist is Keith Jarrett.

Cool!

Can you talk about what Kremer is doing at the beginning of the piece?

The technical term I would use for it is bariolage, which, I think, predates a lot of Baroque genres. Instead of strumming the violin strings like you would a guitar, you’re using the bow to go rapidly from top (string) to bottom. It creates this cloud-like effect of sound. You’re holding the strings with your left hand, in a particular harmony, and then essentially just strumming them with the bow.

Interestingly, you said this is a technique that predates the Baroque era. The advent of minimalism and post-minimalism required new ways of playing a new style of music. Is this something you’ve encountered when playing Philip Glass’s music with the Axiom Quartet?

Playing Philip Glass and Arvo Pärt are similar experiences, but the ways that they differ from each other are interesting. With Glass, what’s challenging is keeping track of where you are, like, what number of the 200 repetitions am I on? But the music he writes, individually, is not particularly difficult. What is difficult is bringing the phasing and the evolution of the music out of this amalgam of simple things.

In this piece by Pärt, he’s pushing things into a more virtuosic place. It’s this contemplative version of something that’s actually very difficult. That said, I’ve never played Glass’s Violin Concerto, and I’m sure that’s pretty difficult! Pärt is also unlocking some uncomfortable things as far as harmonies and how to play them, and things you do with the bow. Stamina is a real issue as well.

Do composers do this because they know what they’re doing or because they don’t know what they’re doing?

(laughs) Yes!

I think music breathes when it’s on the edge of what’s possible. One of my college theory professors, Michael Rose, once told me, “The composer is also accountable to the performer and their experience.” I love the proposing of new things that may or may not be possible, but not the notion of just putting whatever on the page and telling the performer, “Suck it up. Deal with it.” There needs to be a balance.

A performer may say, “I know what you want. Here’s a better, more idiomatic way to get what I think you’re going for.”

Right. And music history is just littered with those exact relationships that created some of the best violin repertoire that has pushed the boundaries of what is possible.

Sylvius Leopold Weiss

“Lute Sonata No. 11 in D Minor: I Fantasia” (from Weiss, Sonatas for Lute, Volume 1, 1997, Naxos), Robert Barto, lute.

(Immediately) Sounds like Sylvius Leopold Weiss. One of his many lute sonatas. I just love this music.

You’ve transcribed this music for solo violin. What compelled you to do that?

A good friend of mine who builds harpsichords introduced me to Weiss’s music. I just loved the simplicity of the texture and how every single note matters. I thought there was enough space in it to transcribe it and take liberties to make it work on the violin.

Was the difference in the range of each instrument present a challenge?

There were a lot of octave displacement challenges. And as you hear, there are tons of leaping from the bass up to the melodic voice. That was the biggest challenge: how to deal with multiple, very distant registers.

Was Early Music a part of your music education?

Only slightly. When I was in college, I went to the Blair School of Music, and there was a teacher there, Carl Smith, who is a harpsichordist and organist, and specialized in historical performance. I did some independent studies and recitals with him, and fell in love with the literature, and how many unspoken gems are in that repertoire that we don’t often play. Coincidentally, I met the harpsichord builder Keith Hill, and by being around him, I fell deeper into the Baroque and pre-Baroque repertoire.

I just love the music, and I love the way I feel picking my modern violin back up after I’ve been playing the Baroque violin. It feels like a reset.

(Astor Piazzolla.)

Astor Piazzolla

“Tango Etude No.3” by Astor Piazzolla (from Solo, 2015, Centaur) Tomas Cotik, violin.

(Immediately) Astor Piazzolla.

The score for this piece is marked “molto marcato.” What does that mean?

Marcato marked. Your question is one of the great questions we have: What does it mean to be “marked”? We violinists typically interpret in two ways: The notes have a sharp front on them, are super articulate, and have lots of space. And then there’s also an implication of tempo attitude, and where you sit on the beat.

This music is just so joyfully vigorous. But Piazzolla gives you so many notes and embellishments that they can distract from the fact that it’s a tango. If you don’t give (the music) enough punctuation, the embellishments take over, and it just sounds like a sheet of stuff.

There’s a video of you performing this piece on the CodaBow YouTube Channel. Do you use different bows for different composers and eras of music?

In a sense. I have a few bows in my life, and certainly different bows respond better or make certain things easier than others. So, I may reach for one bow over another, depending on what I’m playing.

So, the bow isn’t attached to era, but to what is required of the music?

That’s how I think about it.

(Stéphane Grappelli; photo by Allan Warren.)

Stéphane Grappelli

“Nuages” (from Feeling + Finesse = Jazz, 1962, Atlantic), Stéphane Grappelli, violin; Leo Petit, guitar; Guy Pedersen, bass; Daniel Humair, drums.

I have no idea what I’m hearing, but I love it! Who is this?

Stéphane Grappelli!

Oh! Okay.

Grappelli has such a unique and identifiable sound. As a violinist, what is he doing to get that sound?

The thing that stands out for me is the way he’s using his vibrato in the left hand. There’s a wild variety, between using none of it at all, and then some really intense versions of it. And, just the way he articulates things. Like the bow changes, and the grammar between the notes. He’s dipping in and out of the sound so quickly in a quintessentially jazzy way.

He’s sort of sailing through the music.

A train of thoughts.

There’s also a timbre. Does that come from the weight of the bow on the strings?

I think he’s mostly using the upper half of the bow, which means you can play around with the angle of the bow, really quickly and really creatively. So, when he goes into that sound that’s almost flexible or rubbery, he’s tilting that bow, kind of cutting away from the bridge, and that allows him to warble. And then at times he’s really close to the bridge, making an almost ugly, nearly raspy kind of sound.

“Ugly beauty,” as Thelonious Monk called it.

Yeah, totally.

Was jazz a part of your musical upbringing or education, or is it something you’d like to explore at some point?

It’s something I’d love to explore. I’ll be the first to confess I have very little skill, training, or experience in the world of jazz and improvisation. But I would love to. It feels like a skill I leaped over in my super-classical training.

(Dmitri Shostakovich playing football with his son; photo by Nina Vasilyevna Varzar.)

Dmitri Shostakovich

“The Piano Trio No. 2 in E minor, for Violin, Cello, and Piano, Op. 67” by Dmitri Shostakovich (from Trio, 1988, CBS Records), Isaac Stern, violin; Yo-Yo Ma, cello; Emanuel Ax, piano.

(immediately) Oh, yeah. It’s the piano trio, right?

Yes. You knew we had to talk about Shostakovich.

We had to get there! How could we not?

Axiom Quartet is nearly half the way through its season of performances of all fifteen of Shostakovich’s string quartets. How’s it going so far?

Great! This next concert is going to be like jumping in the deep end of an Olympic swimming pool filled with ice. Most of our concerts feature two of Shostakovich’s string quartets and a third by another composer for variety. This is the one concert where we’re doing three of the Shostakovich quartets. But I’m really excited about it. The Seventh Quartet is the shortest. It’s super punchy. Totally gorgeous, but so concise that you do feel like you need more, like it’s a preamble to something. And then the Eighth Quartet is, arguably, his most famous among teenage youths who discover Shostakovich for the first time!

We talked about this for my Houstonia article on Axiom. What is it about that Eighth Quartet that compels a young musician to want to play it?

It’s so brooding and ominous, and then it’s one of those times he allows the brooding and the ominous to explode into the fury. Biographically, it has a lot of lore. This was composed at a time when Soviet politics were just so confusing. Stalin is dead, and everyone’s trying to figure out who really held the reins of the direction of the Soviet Union. Is it Nikita Khrushchev, who is far more Western than the party wants him to be? Or is it the KGB and the far more subversive politics going on underneath the surface?

The Eighth Quartet was composed at a time when he was sleeping on the front porch, or right behind the front door of the house, so that, inevitably, when the KGB came to arrest him, he was right there, and they wouldn’t bother to go upstairs to arrest his family. That never happened, but that piece of lore is super descriptive of what this time was like for him.

As you’ve worked on these quartets, what are some things that have surprised you that you might not have discovered without committing to rehearsing and performing all fifteen?

The simplest and biggest thing that surprised me is how much unbelievable beauty there is in them. I think the most memorable thing about Shostakovich, on the surface, is the bombastic aspect. But digging into these slow movements . . . like the one in the Fifth Quartet, which is jaw-droppingly beautiful. Or the recitative of the Second Quartet. It’s some of the most lyrically awesome, comforting stuff I’ve ever heard.

The other thing that jumps out, that playing them sequentially has really helped with, is seeing how Shostakovich messes around with form and structure. The early quartets are very classical with a capital “C.” You’ve got the right movements in the right place at the right tempo. Then we get to the middle quartets, like the Fifth Quartet, which is the first one where the entire 35-minute piece is continuous without silence. That was the sticking point for him for that piece. What is it like to never truly experience silence and peace? The Ninth Quartet is another one of these, where every single movement of this giant string quartet is just played relentlessly back-to-back with no separation.

And then the later quartets, the five elegies, we start to get more compartmentalized and fragmented, again. But in many ways, the characters of each are so extreme.

Are you rehearsing the quartets sequentially?

Between concerts, we mostly just rehearse what’s on the next concert. But we start with the difficult bits! (laughs)

(Mark O’Connor; photo by Mitch Weiss.)

Mark O’Connor and L. Shankar

“Nomad” (from Heroes, 1993, Warner Brothers), L. Shankar, 10-string double violin; Caroline Shankar, tamboura; Mark O’Connor, fiddle; Swapan Chaudhuri, tabla; Puvalur Srinivasan, mridangam.

Sounds like a Silk Road ensemble thing.

There are two string players on this.

Is that Mark O’Connor?

Yes! He’s playing with Shankar Lakshminarayana, better known as L. Shankar, who is playing a ten-string, stereophonic double-necked electric violin.

This is amazing.

(L. Shankar; photo courtesy of the artist.)

This is an album called Heroes, where O’Connor plays duets with some of his favorite fiddlers. What is the difference between a fiddle and a violin?

(laughs) I just had that conversation with a student this morning, so I’m a little practiced in my response. I think fiddle is a style of violin playing.

What does that style entail?

My favorite example is Michael Cleveland, a sensational Appalachian fiddler. The reason I love him, as an example, is his bow hold. He literally just palms the bow and plays with a fist, and he sounds like a god. For me, that just encapsulates the sort of “fiddle” attitude. To hell with the “right” way of doing anything. Just jam out.

Fiddle music is full of chopping and very exciting ways of creating harmony. It’s another one of those things I wish I had explored more!

There’s still time!

There’s still time! I just need to go find Michael Cleveland . . .

How is it that O’Connor can play with L. Shankar, who isn’t using Western tuning, and plays music with such a different concept?

The willingness to absorb a new kind of music is step one. Step two is being practiced in absorbing new music. Practice with variety goes a long way. I’m sure you have to just sit there and listen to the music you’re trying to learn how to play. The same goes for the limited scope of classical music. Historical performance, for me, was my version of this. You just have to immerse yourself in the way that music is played before you can understand how it works.

Is there a feel there, too, something that you can’t actually teach?

I think so, and that’s what you develop by just listening, immersively, to whatever it is you’re trying to do. Music is an oral tradition, right? And as much as music is notated on the page, and as much as I can show the student how to hold the instrument, you have to go and listen. You have to build your intuition and your sense of how the music wants to be. Listen to the best of the best.

Axiom Quartet presents Inner Fortress, a performance of Shostakovich’s Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth Quartets on Feb 15, 2026, 5:30 PM – 7:30 PM, at Houston Sängerhalle, 1703 Heights Blvd, Houston, TX 77008.