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15 minute read
almost home
clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.
But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was not.
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He had directed, in great part, the moveable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great fete; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm—much of what has been since seen in “Hernani.” There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these—the dreams—writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away—they have endured but an instant—and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many-tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the bloodcolored panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments.
But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus, too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise—then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust. In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince’s indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood—and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.
When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage.
“Who dares?” he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him—“who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him—that we may know whom we have to hang at sunrise, from the battlements!”
It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly—for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.
It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince’s person; and, while the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple—through the purple to the green—through the green to the orange—through this again to the white—and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry—and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave-cerements and corpse-like mask which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.
And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.
Cocked
and Loaded
By Lance Reese
“We’re going to start off with a little Chaos Rag – that’s a good term for it – CHAOS RAAAGGG,” Cockaphonics frontman Raymond Malstead, who goes by Rayko on stage, muses into the microphone.
Two hours earlier the clackety-clack of his diesel truck filled the air as he backed a horse trailer up to the front of Bearded Monkey Music. The trailer is filled with precious cargo, his 100-year-old upright grand piano. Drummer Dan Koenig emerged from the passenger seat holding a single mannequin arm, a Swisher Sweet held between its plastic fingers. He casually smoked the cigar, letting the arm swing down and rest at his side between puffs, and launched into a story. “I was driving home last week, and I see someone had just driven their car into the Yakima River,” he said with both casualness and excitement. He could easily be talking about a really good sandwich he’d just had for lunch. “So anyway, I pulled over and jumped in, pulled them out of the car and to the shore.” Dan then went about his business smoking, talking and unloading gear.
“La-da da da la-da dada,” croons Rayko as he pounds the piano keys. Like a gypsy caravan pretending to be more drunk than they are, his fingers slide and stagger then quickly snap back to rhythm and precision as the drums slam in with a rat ta-ta – tat tat.
Chaos Rag, the Pirate Waltz, and the melodic Vaudeville take you on a journey; a drunken saloon nightmare. Ray rises from his bench, both hands hard onto the keys, his court jester black and white face encouraging the crowd to sing along, dance and make noise.
Eighteen months and one pandemic later, The Cockaphonics are preparing for their biggest show yet, opening a show at The Seasons Performance Hall in Yakima. The band has grown from two members to three, adding trombone player Chris Nobbs to the mix. “I now believe every band needs a horn,” Ray declares.
The addition of Chris has increased commitment and preparation. This isn’t a novelty side project, it’s a legitimate band, a rehearsed performance art piece. The more one listens, the more one realizes how intricate the music is. Every drum beat is choreographed to the timing of the piano. Ray changes signatures on the fly, dropping beats off the end of a measure. It’s a musical chairs game he’s playing, a three card monty on the ivories. Fortunately Dan is in on where the queens is.
At the Seasons, the Cockaphonics are taking the stage to a sold-out crowd who barely knows the headlining act, let alone this trio of vagabond miscreants. Dan sits behind his drums and pushes his hair back into a rooster comb. Chris takes center stage barefoot, his silver horn in hand and a bowler hat casting a shadow over his face. It’s a pressure position for him, the only guy standing on stage, bridging movement between the piano and drums.
Meanwhile Ray is living his dream. No need for the trailer and the archaic upright tonight. The venue’s Steinway Grand is worthy of a gypsy heist, tonight more than content to bang the keys off the harp, letting them ring against the restored cathedral’s domed ceiling.
Then it begins. The audience isn’t sure at first. Where’s the groove? Where’s the singer? But then it hits them, they find that rhythm, that swoony sway in the chaos that feeds Ray’s soul. The tit – tit – rattatt tat on the drums, the horn over the top. Ray has leapt from the stage to distribute kazoos to the crowd, now blaring along to a tornado of piano, drums, and horn. Like moths drawn to a flame, they leave their seats and come down front to dance. The band picks up speed. The crowd is theirs, the music is theirs and on this stage the world could be theirs.
The Cockaphonics could be Greek mythologies’ lost creature, the drunken cousin to the phoenix rising from the ashes of Ray’s previous band, Jipsea Party. Instead of the phoenix rising in a majestic fiery rebirth, The Cockaphonics is the brooding still birth of discord; the sound of Ray sulking alone on the piano. It was Dan’s idea to add drums, something Ray gave no chance of success. Dan proved him wrong. With the addition of drums, Cockaphonics was truly born. For a while the art of BEING Cockaphonics was as important as CREATING MUSIC as Cockaphonics. Both Ray and Dan possess an arthouse style. Enlisting top artists from the area to produce logos and merchandise took center stage. Buy a Cockaphonics shirt, take a picture wearing it, and Ray will put it online with a public shout out thanking you. Dan has a custom guitar strap he received as a gift. No guitars in Cockaphonics? No problem. He wears it during other gigs when he slings his axe.
With Chris on board the music and performance take center stage. Dan and Chris live in Yakima, Ray in Wenatchee. They take turns driving to practice every week, alternating each others’ home cities, and that effort shows.
For the longest time unless one experienced Cockaphonics live, it was hard to hear their music. This is rapidly changing as they are actively recording. They just released their first music video, Holiday Ska. Sung by Dan, it’s the one song they currently have with actual lyrics. It’s a fantastic video to watch, combining a day’s worth of footage featuring freak show stunt performers. The band smashes pianos, concrete blocks and even each other before playing a flaming piano bonfire as the sun sets.
So much music has become formulamatic, so predictable. The Cockaphonics are a refreshing respite, defining what live music should be; a gypsy party stumbled upon in the woods. With upcoming shows, including Yakima’s Beardfest on October 16th, there’s plenty of opportunities to see them soon, and with their dedication, many performances to look forward to in the future.
About Lance Reese ~ Although he looks like a disheveled homeless man, Lance owns and operates Bearded Monkey, a small music recording venue, guitar shop and bike shop in Yakima, Washington.
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10/7 (THU) 5-9pm Ethan Starkey at The Old Barn Drinkery. Admission: FREE Doors open at 5pm music starts at 6pm
10/9 (SAT) 1-6pm Big Chill Cider and Harvestfest at Pybus Market. Celebrate the Harvest with this exciting tasting event.
10/15 (FRI) 3-9pm Wenatchee Valley Barrel & Keg Festival 2021 at Bianchi Vineyards. Local Wine, Cider, Beer, Food Trucks and Live Music. Featuring Bianchi Vineyards, Martin-Scott Winery and Union Hill Cider Co.
10/16 (SAT) 10am Fall Fest 2021 at Hard Hat Winery. Shop from Local Artisans and Women in Business while sipping on Warm Drinks and listening to Live Music.
11/1 (MON) 4-6pm Wenatchee Museum’s Day of the Dead DRIVE-THRU celebration! Take home fun family craft activities, enjoy food and drinks while watching local mariachi and folklorico groups perform.
Wanna plug your kickass event? Send it our way at thecometmagazine@gmail.com
Almost home: Nina Vichayapai & Natalie Dotzauer
This October Gallery One in Ellensburg welcomes two artists whose works explore the themes of domesticity and home. Nina Vichayapai uses fabric as a language to reveal how surroundings embody personal and social histories. From the intimate privacy of homes to the ambiguity of wild landscapes, she explores physical spaces as expressions of the people who have shaped them. Using textiles associated with domestic interiors, her work addresses the important role of homemaking in establishing belonging within the American landscape for the many underrepresented who have been part of it.
Natalie Dotzauer creates sculptural objects, or fragments of them, which trigger the senses and thoughts of nostalgia. A recipe, a smell, a sound, or a roof line can act as relics, or talismans of memories, triggering the senses and conjuring the delight of play. Some of the strongest moments in her life are not just pure joy or sadness; they are a wild combination of bliss and fear, sweetness, and sorrow. Her works aim to hold onto the places of these moments, visit them like monuments and hold them like relics.
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Also featured in the Eveleth Green Gallery is Darwin Davis’ whismical sculptures. And in the Hallway Gallery Patty Bury’s “Waxing & Waning” will be on exhibit.
Natalie Dotzauer
First Friday opening October 1 and the show runs through October.
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Featuring “Crumbs” by Mery Smith
many ghosts
When I see him again,
I will be somewhere in between the relief of knowing he is safe and the inextricable desire to finish him once and for all.
He is a thousand deaths and many ghosts.
Eulogy
I couldn’t save you from their generosity. You were laid to rest at last in new boots and that cleaned-up look. Buried under all that kindness.
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