Music for 6008 Spokes
May 31 – Track field, King Edward PS, 112 Lippincott St. @ 3:00 p.m.
Part of the soundaXis 08 festival
By Rob Teehan
Yet another near miss on my bike: riding along College Street, I’m caught off guard when a rogue cyclist pops out suddenly from behind a parked car, heading straight for me. I swerve to avoid him and lose control, skidding wildly onto the streetcar tracks; I hear a pedestrian gasp. Luckily there are no cars in the lane, the tracks are empty, and I manage to stay upright. Pedalling onward, I can’t help thinking: just once, I’d like to ride to an avant-garde new music concert without almost getting killed en route.
Still rattled, I arrive at the running track behind King Edward Public School and join the growing crowd. We’re giving up our Saturday afternoons to perform Mauricio Kagel’s Eine Brise (“Procession”), a strange composition that calls for 111 cyclists. Gregory Oh, the day’s impresario and field marshal, has billed the event as “Music for 6,008 Spokes” (although my rough estimate puts us shy of 3,000). It’s part of the ongoing soundaXis festival (May 21-June 15), which presents wide-ranging concerts of unusual art music.
Juggling the folded pages of the graphic score, Oh walks us through the rehearsal: we will ride in close formation, making sounds at each of four checkpoints according to the instructions on posted signs. One sign has us ringing our bells, another singing or whistling, and so forth. The events were meant to happen only once, Oh explains, the formation approaching a fixed body of spectators from a distance, serenading them as it rolls past, and riding away into the sunset. Instead we plan four or five go-arounds on our oval track.
Oh picks me to be point man; I’m instructed to maintain a slow, easy pace (after my close call, I need no convincing). I look behind: the cyclists stretch out, a motley crew of musicians, composers, friends, families, and anyone else who answered Oh’s internet-wide appeal. As we snake past the first checkpoint on our test run, the park echoes with our bells — an amazing, ethereal sound, like being surrounded by wind chimes. Gradually the whistlers and singers join in; we make an eerie racket.
The bewildered faces of bystanders ask the question: 40 grown men and women riding bicycles around in a circle and making strange noises, isn’t this all a little silly? Maybe, but that’s not the point: the composition creates a unique theatrical experience for the audience, but needs no special skills to perform. In fact some parents show up later with their young children, who become equal partners in crime. This is art for the people.
Performance time, and storm clouds are gathering. Will we stay dry? It’s looking doubtful, and indeed the drops start just as we begin our ride. But it’s a light drizzle, not yet the day’s promised thunder, and so the show goes on. As expected, we performers — now some sixty strong with late arrivals — outnumber spectators more than two to one.
Oh stands trackside with a video camera, grinning impishly; I strive for a convincing flutter-tongue sound as I pass. One bike loses a pedal during the second lap – I stretch down and kick it aside. Two locals walk into the middle of the field and stand in silent mockery. Ignore them! But now I’ve lost count, is this lap 3 or 4? Better keep going to be safe. There’s Oh waving his arm: the checkered flag.
It’s over quickly, and we scurry to the sidelines to clear the field for the Etobicoke School for the Arts’ dance company, DancESAtion, who have prepared a charming Bicycle Ballet. Decked out in fluorescent tights, the grade 10-12 students pedal in circles and criss-crossing patterns, standing on their seats in graceful rolling arabesques or trading high-fives according to Julia Aplin’s light-hearted choreography (bikeography?), and ringing their bells in musical patterns designed by John Gzowksi. At one point the bike dancers burst into song, belting out The Blue Danube and ringing the famous offbeats as they wheel around like a chorus line. Still sitting on our bikes, we join from the audience: da-da-da-da-daah…ring ring! ring ring! Somehow I’m reminded of synchronized swimming. Thankfully nobody slips in the worsening rain.
The day’s third act — what would have been a very wet reading of Terry Riley’s minimalist masterpiece In C — is cancelled. But after the bulk of the crowd has dispersed, our luck changes: the rain abates, just in time for the ride home.
I give every parked car a wide berth.
