Okkyung Lee
Nihm

John Zorn discovered her. And that alone would suffice. For those who love Zorn, that would be enough to immediately set out in search of this thirty-six-year-old Korean cellist, for many still a "mysterious object" of the new avant-garde. For those who do not love Zorn, that would equally suffice to instantly abandon this page and move on to another review, because the album I propose here is certainly not for them.

An "elitist" proposal, you might say? I don't know, after all, the concept of a musical "élite" has something of the snob, the sectarian, the coldly academic; and nothing of this is evident in the ten, irresistible episodes that make up "Nihm," the debut work of the musician born in Daejon but, in fact, New Yorker by musical formation and culture in general. Because there is spontaneity, there is freedom (controlled in the more "cerebral" moments, unrestrained to the verge of delirium in the most extreme improvisation pieces), there is the bizarre and visionary experimentation of the first Henry Cow, there are the complicated and edgy geometries of Soft Machine from "Fourth," and there is, finally, so much, so much passion and dedication to the instrument: with Okkyung and her cello, there is a renewal, in advanced and very modern forms, of the relationship of "erotic" symbiosis between performer and instrument, a bond of reciprocal and pervasive interpenetration. It leaves an impression on those who have witnessed an improvisation of hers (and unfortunately, YouTube is still sparse with evidence on the subject), the image of this girl with closed eyes, totally absorbed and raptured, face drenched in sweat, who like a Fury, attacks, bow in hand, her instrument, engaging with it in a relationship that has nothing "platonic" about it, but all the actual traits of carnal union. In the splendid, indescribable cover of this album (yes, even in the third millennium it is possible to create masterpieces of visual art), the musician is portrayed with her head thrown back, long hair loose, a gaze barely caught on the upturned face: in that photograph, you can perceive the irrepressible enthusiasm of the performance, the "trance" in which the performer is plunged, far from everything and everyone; with her, only and solely her cello, an ideal and perfect guide for tortuous sensual paths.

Around the "seer" gather musicians of undeniable value, from the veteran Ikue Mori on electronics (a cult figure and living emblem of experimentation in all its forms) to Tim Barnes and Trevor Dunn. Uncertain and variable soundscapes are what open up to the listeners' eyes; and it's no coincidence I speak of "eye" and not just "ear," because this is music with a beastly, devastating evocative power; music so powerful that it becomes "matter" itself, generating lively, concrete, blurry yet present images. The titles are instructions for the imagination, and if the debut piece is titled "On A Windy Day," it doesn't take much to understand that those disjointed percussive fragments correspond to leaves, twigs, objects, and things swept away by the fury of the wind on an autumn day: it is modern romanticism, it is the ineffable impulse of nature that pours into the music and gives it substance. Trills, cracks, rustles, and acute noise follow and overlap, born of chance yet blended and juxtaposed to the point of resembling a majestic symphony of deranged clocks, orchestrated by the constant and severe growl of the underlying cello. 

And how much Canterbury is there in "That Undeniable Empty Feeling," "that undeniable sensation of emptiness" expressed within the folds of an open composition by double bass and percussion, and then marked by the unison of cello and Doug Wieselman's clarinet; how much Keith Tippett, how much early ‘70s English Jazz in the wild cacophony of the second part? Unstable and contradictory, her moods, when with the ease of a veteran she can shift from noise to the delicate and alluring harmonies of "Story Of You & Me," only to suddenly plunge back into isolated moments of confusion. Spectral and marvelous, the over seven minutes of "Returning Point", an emotional rise and fall of cello and double bass that leave one stunned and intoxicated, and the homemade electronics of Mori peeking in from time to time. And what about the melancholic classicism of "Sky", the barely repressed anger of "Closed Window," the slow and sleep-slow awakening of a "437 Tuesday Morning" that weakly extinguishes at the end?

Gentlemen, we are in the presence of one of the greatest contemporary musicians, and the level of her art is worldwide. The 5 stars I assign are actually a non-vote, because I prefer to define certain records as "out of category." And She is beyond genres, beyond music itself, out of herself. Simply, out. Like all the Greats.

I will talk about Her again, sooner or later, there is still so much to explore, in the facets of her elusive art. But in the meantime, abandon yourselves to what you feel in these 47 minutes, and tell me what you think...