Vee Hua 華婷婷
This evening, a local music shop called Dusty Springs has lent Ellis a gigantic, trapezoidal stringed instrument, sweetly named the dulcimer. It takes up half the stage of the Seattle all-ages venue, The Vera Project, adding to an atmosphere which in general is casual and cozy. Rows of chairs sparsely populate the venue, concluding with a final row of single-seater sofas towards the back. Something only a DIY venue could do, really.
Ellis tells us they’ll show us the beast of a dulcimer afterwards, so as to not mess up the position of the microphone – and then they continue to talk to the crowd, like an educator of sorts. Ellis is known for their work around disability due to their stuttering, but they also endeavor to provide access points for others who may take in information differently.
They begin by describing the entire setup of the room with a “visual description,” which is a verbal description of things that are happening, much like some of much may have experienced virtually during Zoom meeting. The purpose? So that those who may be limited in sight might understand better what is taking place on the stage.
In the language of visual descriptions, Ellis describes themself and their wardrobe, even as they take off thwir sneakers. They describe the yellow projection slide with black text and read off its words. They also introduce the lavender plush hippo that’s onstage with them
“That’s Hildegaard,” they say. She’s a traveling traveling companion, which has been lent to them by his wife, Luísa Black Ellis, herself a multi-faceted Brazilian-American eco-poet.
What’s obvious in the introduction is that this JJJJJerome Ellis musical set is… slow, unusual, different. Ellis acknowledges the space and gives gratitude to the evening in general. They speak a lot about traveling and speaks to the crowd in a way that feels very human. All is… gracious.
And in this slow graciousness, a container is created, knowingly or unknowingly, which allows participants to enter in and be themselves in the space; to take in the performance in whatever way feels comfortable to them.
“I’ll start on the piano,” Ellis says.
But really they start on the computer keyboard. They begin by typing: “The piano’s music ripples outward. Jerome’s voice, a heron flying low over the water. The lyrics: Glory Glory Hallelujah when I laid my burdens down.”
They then read the words aloud: another visual description before they move onto the piano and provide us the sonic equivalent of just those poetic written descriptions. But of course, Ellis sings and makes sounds that are more than just the written words. Of course their piano does more than just “ripple,” and of course their voice begins like a heron flying low but later soars into unpredictable heights and into places that we cannot easily catch.
And then there are moments between words that are more punctuated by silence and the movement of Ellis’ hands, seemingly taking count through unknown and undefinable repeating gestures. There are many mysteries about the set, even despite all the words that are written and read aloud.
For after all, a JJJJJerome Ellis performance is not just music, but one that incorporates performance art and poetry, and which prioritizes an awareness of disability and of care.
Ellis has undoubtedly been bold and singular since their debut album, 2021’s The Clearing. This time around, they’re on tour for their upcoming record, Vesper Sparrow, a 6-track record which will be released November 14 on Shelter Press. Four of the songs are titled some variation of “Evensong, Part [insert number] (for and after [insert name]).” The only exceptions are track three, “Vesper Sparrow,” and track four,” Savannah Sparrow.”
The two versions of the sparrow songs, Ellis says, relate to singing while growing up in an evangelical charismatic church that they have since left. Yet leaving the church does not mean leaving spirituality; Ellis speaks of the challenge of understanding their relationship with the divine outside of worshipping at the church. What has helped them, they say, is connecting with the songs they grew up singing.
While singing about sparrows, Ellis plays the dulcimer. That glorious trapezoidal musical spaceship.
“And I don’t know,” they type, with what I initially think is a pen in their mouth. “A dulcimer waterfall.”
“To what do we owe the honor?” the audience must think, as they receive the gift.
I quickly learn that said pen is in fact a dulcimer hammer, and out comes flowing a dulcimer waterfall indeed – richly cascading with a technical prowess that makes me wonder how Ellis can see so well in the dark to play such a magical instrument.
At the same time, how odd that I somehow find myself thinking: artificial intelligence can’t replace this.
The show is too complex in its simplicity to fully describe. I appreciate that I can close my eyes and disconnect as I can be present. That I can blink at an orange screen in the darkness and see blue. That Ellis directs their saxophone towards me, and I actually cannot believe how I can hear the textured nuance of their breath, staggering like their voice may stutter at times while saying their own name, although it’s just a wind instrument here, saying no words – only breath.
Sometimes during this show, the room is so silent that I don’t think I’ve ever heard so much silence at a live performance before. Sometimes it’s so silent that I hear layers upon layers upon layers of sound that are anything but the supposed music. I hear the music blasting and the city noise rumbling outside; the air conditioner or whatever struggling to fill the concert space… every single bit of it is all evocative.
I don’t know how else to describe it – but I deeply feel the moments when Ellis sings a hymn and asks for it, him, her, them, someone, something, to “hold my hand,” like a gentle ship floating by in dark night waters. I think maybe we all are looking for something like that in these times. Some kind of comfort.
“precious [.] take my hand, lead me on, let me stand, i am tired, i am weak, i am worn, through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light,” Ellis writes. Ellis sings. Ellis offers, as they cradle us all in a sonic blanket.
I appreciate the container that has been created. Because the show itself is far from conventional, it feels that the audience need not be conventional, either. There is so much conceptual and literal space in the performance that I let myself be free to be; free to feel. I allow myself to meander towards semi-sleep, sinking into my single-seater couch seat as I’m semi-horizontal, burying my fuzzy hat into my hands like a plushie. I am so deep in doing my own thing that the performance propels me into memories of childhood that are uncomfortable but weird, yet none of this experience reads quite like a meditation, either.
I come back to life like a startled breath because Ellis is walking with their saxophone all around the room. I can feel the vibration touching somewhere deep inside me and literally, physically, right next to me. Soon, I find myself unable to keep track of how much time this song has been playing. Has it been going on forever, or is it just me?
I don’t really care, honestly, because my hat is in my hands, and I am not quite in the meditation zone, but I’m just doing my own thing so hard, it’s incredible. The container, the container, the container. A venue and a show set up like this: which centers care and disability; just being human and good art… I’m not as much watching as I am having a moment, full-body sensorial.
I appreciate this type of church that JJJJJerome Ellis’ sparrow songs have brought.
Ω
Navi Esparza
Jake Renn
