Last year saw the release of a new album, Child of My Sorrow, which saw a continuation of Eric Krewson’s distinctively detailed style. Positioning itself in the present day, the record presents “a clash between the human and inhuman, individual spirit butting up against insidious forces that seem determined to break it.” The result is a collection of songs with an emptiness at its core, something missing from the experience of life that cannot be shaken.

Longing could be said to be the presiding sensation of the record, though it’s one far removed from the material-orientated kind that drives our age. Instead, this is longing for something more, meaning garnered through connection, be it with another person or higher power, a value whose absence is marked by a kind of mortal pain.

We took the time to speak with Krewson again in an attempt to dig a little deeper into the album’s themes.

Child of My Sorrow has been out in the world for a number of months now. How do you view the record with that degree of hindsight?

It’s an interesting thing. The band performs the material regularly, which keeps it in the foreground – the songs continue to unfold or elaborate themselves. As a result, I continue to get thoughtful responses from people about the album’s characters/narrators. This is a good thing, though it prevents me from seeing the album in hindsight and giving a definitive answer. I will say, I’m proud of what my bandmates and I made in the recorded album of Child of My Sorrow. I think it’s our most compelling work.

The recording process had something of an international flavour, with time spent in Clarksboro, Chattanooga and Galicia, Spain. What’s the story behind this?

The majority of Child of My Sorrow was tracked live in Clarksboro, NJ. My friends Luke Pigott and Ashley Hartman, who recorded with us in Clarksboro on previous records, now live elsewhere, Luke in Chattanooga and Ashley in Spain. After recording with my bandmates in Philadelphia, I took the nascent album to Luke and he and I added to it. Ashley recorded her parts on her own and emailed them to me. Both of these situations afforded us a bit more creative space.

The twin themes of protest and faith form a major part of your writing, and indeed in a previous conversation we touched upon the idea of a progressive religious history being lost to consensus. In many ways, Child of My Sorrow doubles as a mourning of this loss and a dedication to its spirit, as though suffering the mischaracterisation or misappropriation of religion is itself a test of faith, and the effort to tell a different narrative its own form of protest. Could you delve a little deeper into your view of the record in this light?

I find it alarming that everywhere I look, an otherwise intelligent person is rashly denouncing something: a particular person or a group of people or – more often, given the circles in which I find myself – large swaths of history rich in religious, artistic, and scholastic thought, which they deem not progressive enough or conservative enough – ultimately, not enough like themselves. Incredible to think, it’s common for me to read someone’s definitive judgment on everyone who lived and died in a particular era, for example, the Enlightenment.

Closing oneself off to that which is not familiar limits understanding of God, it diminishes faith and, subsequently, art and knowledge. “God isn’t powerful enough to do a good thing byway of x.” When you reframe an offhanded judgment in that way, it’s clear where the problem lies. Another reframing could be “I have set defined limits for myself, my understanding, my art – I go no further.” One thing that John Calvin (in his Institutes) and Teresa of Ávila (in her The Interior Castle) both write about, both quite beautifully, is the idea that, in searching for yourself, you find God, and in searching for God, you find yourself. When you arbitrarily circumscribe your range of vision, you lose sight of both paths.

An appreciation or reverence for all things – especially what you do not know intimately – is something you find in great writing, which is always a kind of protest.

I read piece on the record that spoke of the ‘prophets’ and ‘poets’ in life—those that tell us what is happening and those that merely give voice to the sensations of life—positioning you in the latter camp against the likes of Jordan Peterson and Harold Bloom. Prophet might not be the word I’d use for those figures, but it does open up an interesting point in the current culture. Is there room for the nuanced and indirect in a world of reductive opinions and binary positions?

Yes, I believe there’s space for nuance in art and scholarship and day-to-day conversation. In some ways, there is a great chasm waiting to be filled. It does require a particular posture, though, and a willingness to live and create without assumption. I suppose this necessitates a sense of peace that doesn’t seem possible for most of us, myself included, most days.

If I may argue against the poet/prophet divide: in religious thought (and it feels a little weird to remove “prophet” from that sphere) the defining characteristic of a prophet is their ability to lead people to right worship, which has much to do with turning away from greed and self-advancement, taking up the cause of the poor, etc. Historically, fiction has done this work (I’ll mention just Charles Dickens’ Bleak House as an example – it helped advance judicial reforms). On the other hand, many prophets engaged and continue to engage in performance art.

Do you have any idea of what the future holds for The Chairman Dances?

For me, in writing an album, you need to clear an acre of land in order to build a modest home. I’m clearing brush at the moment.

Finally, could you name four or five acts you think we should know about right now?

I’m listing, for the most part, artists who are friends of mine. Often, they started as musicians and writers with whom I felt an affinity.

Magic Video: Luke Pigott and Ashley Hartman, mentioned earlier, run this project. (I contributed just the slightest bit to a self-titled album that’s on its way).

Brother Martin: Maria Mirenzi, who sometimes plays baritone sax with The Chairman Dances, and Dan Espie are the permanent members of this musically sophisticated group (named for a beloved canine).

Michele Ward, based in Baltimore, Maryland, is an excellent poet.

Lambert, Hendricks & Ross was a vocalese jazz group active in the late fifties and early sixties. Their recordings are incredible.

Child of My Sorrow is out now and you can get it from The Chairman Dances Bandcamp page.

Photo by Bob Sweeney

The post Interview: Eric Krewson of The Chairman Dances appeared first on Various Small Flames.

The Chairman Dances succeed in bringing characters to life in three dimensions, though on Time Without Measure the feat is even more impressive as the roster of figures are not only numerous but also known to history in decidedly superhuman terms. Now more than ever we should remember that activists and political heroes, for all of their spirit and unimaginable resolve, are as prone to doubt and death as anyone, and not half as powerful without our support and belief.

We were lucky enough to get the opportunity to put a few questions to lead Eric Krewson to see just how such an album comes into being.

Hi Eric, thanks for taking the time to speak with us. How’s life been since the release of Time Without Measure?

Hello, Jon. My pleasure. Much of the past month has been taken up with performances and preparation for those performances. This past Friday, for instance, we gave a talk and played at Dorothy Day’s Maryhouse in NYC, which was a real thrill for me. Dorothy writes about life in that community in The Long Loneliness. We stayed overnight at Maryhouse and, walking down the stairs to breakfast the next morning, I felt as though I had walked into her text: the radio flooded the room with WNYC’s classical music programming, there was plenty of food and many demands on my attention—to do this please, move that please—all of which precluded the reading I had hoped to do, just as these exact things (Rossini on WNYC, etc.) interrupted Dorothy’s reading over half a century earlier. It was a surreal experience.

Each track on the album is about a different person (or several people) from history. Were they figures you were familiar with before sitting down to write the record? How did you go about selecting/researching them?

I was familiar with Dorothy Day and Augustine only. I thought the record—once I knew what it was—would be a good opportunity for me to explore my religious tradition. The research I did turned out to be a great history lesson as well. I was surprised and heartened to read about the many peaceful religious protests in the 1960s and 70s. I read with awe about the Baltimore 4, the Catonville 9, the Camden 28. I’m progressive and live across the river from Camden, NJ, and yet I had never heard of the Camden 28. Progressive religious history has no share in our collective memory.

I picked the record’s protagonists somewhat arbitrarily. One person often led to another. At all points, I tried to be aware of the emerging narrative, the effect that a person included or excluded would have. Representation was an important concern.

While the album is entirely historical in its focus, I was struck by just how relevant it felt to our times. Did you pursue the themes of activism in response to any particular modern movement or event? Is protest in the air in contemporary America?

In some ways, the United States was at a different place when I started writing the album. News outlets were not sharing footage of men being murdered in the streets as often as they are now, and I am glad they’re reporting this news, even as they need to spotlight the causes, not just the effects. Subaltern groups—black men, especially, but also Native Americans, those with disabilities—have always been killed by the state, both physically and spiritually (byway of incarceration). Now we are seeing the desolation with our own eyes and being made aware of these issues by protests. The state has responded to the collective outcry with more violence toward these marginalized groups.

I could go on at length, but suffice it to say this is an evil time in America. It is heartbreaking.

I’ve used this quote before but it’s something I think about a lot. David Foster Wallace once said “there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship.” For me, Time Without Measure is almost an attempt to give us something meaningful to worship, an alternative to cheering a racist politician or lining up all night for the latest smartphone. Does this align with your motives at all?

Those are wise words. Nietzsche says something similar in his On the Genealogy of Morality. (While, as a twenty-year-old, I was enamored with that text, as a thirty-year-old, I don’t recommend it.) Lots of other non-religious thinkers have come to that conclusion and in fact the New Testament bears witness to it when it denounces greed as idolatrous. I recently read a helpful gloss on the Epistle to the Colossians by Brian J. Walsh. Walsh calls the letter “seditious” in that it “demythologiz[es]… the empire” by asking its readers to cease its worship of the state, of the principalities, of Cesar. Psalm 146 warns “Do not put your trust in princes, in mortals, in whom there is no help.”

Yes, one of my aims was to provide an alternative narrative. As I mentioned, progressive religious history has been forgotten (including, sadly, religion’s role in the abolition of U.S. slavery). As a result, even the most well meaning journalists, artists, etc., fail to adequately represent religion. Every time NPR or the New York Times mentions faith, I cringe.

The record deals with special people in a particularly real way, so they aren’t quite mere mortals but not saints or angels either, sort of meeting us halfway in a place we can reach (or aspire to). You did a great job humanizing these figures, but I was wondering if there were any individuals you wanted to include but couldn’t? Was there a person impossible to reanimate convincingly?

I’ve very glad you feel that way. For most of the people included, it took roughly two tries to get a text I felt I could work with. Yes, there were some I felt I couldn’t represent adequately. Takashi Nagai, who miraculously survived the United State’s atomic bombing of Nagasaki, wrote a memoir, The Bells of Nagasaki, which should be required reading for all. I would have liked to throw some light on his story but ultimately I couldn’t. All of that death—it doesn’t lend itself to anything but grief. There is a work by Hildegard of Bingen wherein all of the characters sing except for the devil—he speaks. It is hard to sing evil.

I would have also liked to include a song for Marilynne Robinson, but I know her work too well. It’s difficult to frame my admiration and gratitude for her thought.

What do you consider your biggest influences as a songwriter? Are there any musicians/authors/artists who really stand out? Do you draw upon the other members of The Chairman Dances?

I’ve come to embrace the very full life I lead, my more-or-less two full-time jobs and home life, thus I try to learn what I can from whatever I come across. If I hear spirituals or Messiaen, and I listen to both gladly, then I try to glean something from that experience. In terms of intentional listening, I remember hearing the Magnetic Fields 69 Love Songs and Springsteen’s Born to Run prior to recording the album. Both were influential.

The band arranges the songs together, as a group. Absolutely, each individual’s playing informs everyone else’s, including mine. Additionally, a few Chairman Dancers are involved in other projects. (Kevin plays in a band called Man Illuminated. Luke and Ashley perform as September. Ben Rosen plays bass in Bird Watcher; he’s also a great composer.) All of what we do, both in other groups and in our own study, affects the music we make together in some way.

Of course, the writing of and about those included in the album (Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Letters and Papers from Prison, Daniel Berrigan’s play The Trial of the Catonsville Nine, etc.) were all influential.

Finally, could you name 4-5 acts you think we should be listening to, be they old, new, popular or obscure?

I feel obliged to mention artists unknown in our sphere, thus I recommend Even Oxen; the young and gifted producer Corey Smith West; Anonymous 4 (stars in the classical music world); and the author William Stringfellow.

Time Without Measure is out now via Black Rd. Records and you can buy it from the Chairman Dances Bandcamp page. Also, why not check out a feature Krewson wrote for us earlier in the year, detailing the genius of Marilynne Robinson?

Photo by Jonathan Brown

The post Interview: The Chairman Dances appeared first on Various Small Flames.

It is perhaps unsurprising then that the band’s debut full-length Time Without Measure is an album with lofty goals. As the press releases states, the album explores “history and biography, faith and doubt, in unexpected and meaningful ways,” with Eric Krewson and Co. looking to history for inspiration. “What sets Time Without Measure apart — and what makes the album so relevant in 2016 — is its political nature. The album depicts the lives of ten (mostly) activists who demanded progress and, in return, were demonized by the powers that be.”

Opener ‘Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin’ is a snippet from the lives of the pair who created Catholic Worker Movement, a organisation which aimed to provide help for those struck by poverty, as well as protesting (nonviolently) on their behalf. The song finds Day working as a journalist, with Krewson conjuring the dualism of being a normal, humble person (“I wake up each morning in the newsroom that doubles as my bedroom, which doubles as my closet”) while also working toward huge, socially progressive ends.

“I’m up late each evening cleaning the dishes, Tamar at my knee and Peter at the table reading a book or two or three, when he gets to talking. Of leaving this city and taking the worst off, taking them all with us, just over that bending river”

‘Augustine’ finds the saint the bewildered by the names that dream of him, the music brash and confident in a way one is entitled to be when thought of so highly by Calvin and Dylan, while the verses of ‘Fannie Lou Hamer’ has the skippy energy and catchy repetition of a children’s verse. Complete with handclaps and echoed refrain, the track mimics Hamer’s habit of singing hymns with her civil rights group to maintain spirit and morale. And spirit they needed — the song is a reference to her bus trip to Indianola, Mississippi, where she travelled on the urging of Rev. James Bevel in order to register to vote. With the rhythmic chorus, the song is ready to singalong with from the off, and certainly captures the sense of carefree momentum that surely enchanted those brave enough to risk discrimination and death in order to gain what their people deserved.

‘Thérèse’ describes the beginning of the end for Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, who, after going to bed on Good Friday joyous after the Lenten fast, woke to find blood on her handkerchief, a sure sign of the death sentence that was tuberculosis. “I woke up with a pounding in my chest and a ringing in my ears,” Krewson has her say amid the cinematic swells of instrumentation, “you would have thought that I’d protest”. In reality, Thérèse was immensely touched that Christ should speak to her so clearly on the anniversary of his own death, providing the album with an example of capital-F Faith. The following track ‘Jimmy Carter’ is far less sure, finding the former president citing Flannery O’Connor (“It is much harder to believe”) and Paul Tillich (“Doubt is not the opposite of faith; it is one element”) as touchstones in his own struggles. The song is slow and wide and almost peaceful, before growing into a finale not quite transcendental but near enough, as though Carter grows into an understanding of Tillich’s words.

“I have found it’s much harder to do right. Doubt, fear and worry—and unbelief

O what sweet relief I found in Mark 9:23-4. I gave a sigh.”

‘César Chávez’ casts the civil rights activist in a light both typical and not, a man who takes out equity loans and recognises his wife’s favourite clothing who finds himself in the headlines and having visions in his sleep. ‘Kitty Ferguson’ offers progressive views of a different kind, providing yet another spin on the idea of faith by challenging the militant opinions on both sides of the religion/science divide by claiming that the two fields can coexist, striving, as she put it “[to] wrest both science and religion from the dogmatists of scientific atheism and religious fundamentalism”.

‘Catonsville 9 (Thomas and Marjorie)’ focuses on the Melville’s from said organisation, a Catholic couple who fought to bring attention to US involvement in Guatemala and served time after the Nine burned draft files in protest against the Vietnam war. The song finds them happy and relaxed, as though entirely convinced in their actions and beliefs, and finding the prospect of prison less of a burden than acting against their values. As ever, Krewson manages to cultivate a real sense of character, their playful intimacy possibly the biggest symbol of protest against the sanctions of bloodshed and fear peddled by their opposition.

“My wife and I drive to Catonsville, homemade napalm in our laps. Sun soaked and happy, we spill cherry cola on the map. My wife and I talk about the years, philosophy and its limits. Though we’re off to federal prison, there’ll be conjugal visits”

‘Peter Gomes and Nancy Koehn’ is based around a personal remembrance written by Koehn for the preacher and theologian Gomes, speaking of a man who saved her life and those of many others through his elegant insights into religion and life. The song plays as a suitable ode to what sounds like a great man (who Koehn called “a blazing light”, and Krewson “a sign for the living”), but also a meditation on faith, serving as a reminder that any holes in thinking and philosophising can be filled through empathy, compassion and friendship, acts which might just end up becoming your belief itself.

As if that lot was not powerful enough, The Chairman Dances close the album with ‘Dietrich Bonhoeffer’, a track about the anti-Nazi dissident who, despite being imprisoned and finally executed, lives on through his book, The Cost of Discipleship, which argues against the commodification of faith. The song finds Bonhoeffer under threat, perhaps from the Gestapo or the hangman or maybe the more general fascist danger, though amidst the violence holds onto his unshakeable trust in something bigger than himself.

“I was up smoking a cigarette when the curtains were thrown open. The night spilling in. And I thought about you, I thought I might see you bathed in light”

Just as with Samantha Says, The Chairman Dances succeed in bringing characters to life in three dimensions, though on Time Without Measure the feat is even more impressive as the roster of figures are not only numerous but also known to history in decidedly superhuman terms. Now more than ever we should remember that activists and political heroes, for all of their spirit and unimaginable resolve, are as prone to doubt and death as anyone, and not half as powerful without our support and belief. Likewise, we’d do well to remember that villains and bigots are human too, flames that, however fierce and bright, will be snuffed out without the oxygen that is our backing. This album is a reminder that belief and faith can save us. It’s just a matter of choosing the right thing in which to invest our energies.

Time Without Measure is out now via Black Rd. Records and you can buy it from the Chairman Dances Bandcamp page, including a rather lovely CD edition.

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