#46 Alan Sparhawk (Low)

When listening to Alan Sparkhawk for the first time, we stupidly murmur to ourselves that it’s him and his marked voice before us. This presence stupefies us. What is most touching in Alan’s case is the conviction of his voice, both soft and unshakeable, which cradles us to a far off place. He sings and it suddenly speaks. It sounds stupid to say, but that’s what folk is. A wandering voice that cradles and winnows.

One of the pleasures of these Take Away Shows is to verify whether or not they will move like the air. It’s always a surprise to determine whether the music moves with the space. What’s going to happen when we hit this bend in the staircase or the courtyard? How’s it going to sound as the camera comes down from above or takes its perch in a tree? When the microphone falls, or some random guy flagrantly sabotages the whole thing, will the voice still push on, unaffected and with the certainty that nothing can slow it down? It rarely happens with such ease. But when it does, it feels miraculous. The song never slows down or falls, and the voice never tarries or stalls.

The troubling part of this story is that these videos are not at all what I expected. What I saw while filming is far different from what the footage tells. It the moment it was completely different, everything so simple and seamless. While listening to Alan sing calmly, I captured everything that seemed to move, like some sort of sponge. There were moments, like Alan amidst a ray of sunlight, or a striking silence in the song “Murderer.” And I took them all. But what I came upon in the videos is two blocks of images that seem to have no resemblance to what I recall actually happened. By themselves, they seem to be just two events, or two petrified masses of time. I don’t hear the voice I remember. This could bother me, but I find it rather cool. What it tells me is that, apart from our memories, we can make poetry. Pure and uncut.

Text by Matthieu Chéreau, translated by Matt Evans