I'm tag-teaming today, as I did yesterday, with my partner in crime (and husband) Ethan Zuckerman to liveblog the 2009 iteration of the fabulous Pop!Tech conference in Camden, Maine. You can read about today's events at the Pop!Tech blog, or via the Pop!Tech 2009 tag at Ethan's blog and via the Pop!Tech 2009 category here on this blog.
If you're new to Velveteen Rabbi, welcome. Here's some information about me, and here's my comments policy. Enjoy the conference posts -- not my usual fare, but hopefully interesting. (And to longtime readers: never fear, I'll return to my usual subject matter in a few days.)
CC photo; O'Connor practices in the Green Room before coming onstage.
O'Connor's fiddle playing is fast, virtuosic, lyrical, like the rush of notes pouring from a wood thrush's throat. It's mesmerizing, somewhere between classical music and something I wish I knew how to dance to. The piece he's playing keeps shifting, a sonic patchwork quilt with all sorts of influences and more different time signatures than I can count.
Many of the early motifs return, by the end, giving me the sense that we've come full circle. Through key changes and almost unthinkably fast waterfalls of notes, we're all mesmerized.
When he stops playing, O'Connor tells us that his presentation is going to be about how natural habitat interfaces with music education. The piece he just played was commissioned for the bicentennial of Tennessee, about 15 years ago; it's called "The Mockingbird," which is Tennessee's state bird.
"The next piece has to do with the ocean," O'Connor says, and with how waves reach the shoreline, each one carving a chapter in the history of the ocean. He hopes we'll hear solitude, drama, hope. "While I'm playing this I'll think about the earlier presentation about the albatross on Midway island." (He's referring to Chris Jordan’s photos of plastic inside an albatross at Midway Atoll, seen here on Thursday. You can see some of them here.)
This one starts out slow and melancholy. Maybe it's because I've been tipped off beforehand, but I can imagine this accompanying a walk along a cold, windswept north Atlantic beach. After a time the tempo picks up, like the wind raising itself into a squall, and runs of notes crest like whitecaps. The piece ends with a long slow rise toward silence, and at first the crowd hesitates, hoping for more before we applaud.