The Books: collectors and collage makers

It was a soggy evening. We were late, but only barely. Our tickets greeted us at the door. Our seats were up a coiling stairway into the bowls of Cornell Cinema, Ithaca, NY. I had gone for a preparatory pee, and let my companions precede me. When I entered the murky second-tier seating, I was ambivalent to discombobulated isolation. Music and video assailed me: The Books in full 2D, 3D, and auditory assault.

The Books are a New York City-based duo, consisting of Nick Zammuto--guitar, vox, bass--and Paul de Jong--cello with great vigor. He broke a string during the performance (and also played bass on one song). Live, they jam over and in sync with their electronic music. Synchronized videos act like pulsing semaphores, conveying independent messages and impressions. The overall effect is stunning and distinctive. For me, the songs and videos bled into one overwhelming and mesmerizing farrago.

The Books are masters of recreation and transformation – what they have deigned to call “auditory mosaic” or “collage music.” They think little of disciplinary or stylistic rigidity, and they are unlikely to be dogmatic about much of anything except originality and quality. They are mixed-media innovators and tinkerers. Zammuto claims to have installed amplifiers in filing cabinets in order to explore metallic resonance. Their art and speech are redolent of eclecticism and artistic postmodernism.

During a Q&A session after the Cornell set, Zammuto mused on the role of language: its inevitable and undeniable power and yet its certain sterility and inherent limitations. It is, he claimed, the best single tool for human communication, but it still can't beat the whole toolbox.

For The Books, language is crucial to song and video composition. However, the words they sing and embed as electronic samples do not primarily explain, predict, or commentate; Zammuto rejected the view of their music as social and political utterance. In this sense, the words they use constitute one of many instruments, used to evoke a range of intellectual and emotional responses – awe, humor, curiosity, etc. And instead of invent, evaluate, and pontificate, The Books collect and they channel.

Zammuto touted de Jong aptitude as a “great collector” of words and not just video. They collect material from thrift stores, even collaborate with other collectors, and mine information from prosaic situations. Their track "Motherless Bastard," they claim, uses real-time video and audio recording from a fast food restaurant.

Be that as it may, language and video in The Books invoke emotion in a way distinct from, say, one of de Jong’s cello solos. Creative force and selectivity guide their composition process. And deciding what to show and not show, how to arrange, distort, and emphasize imply a purpose which is more profound than exhibitionism. There's no escaping artistic intent. And as much as they try to counteract or discount the view, Zammuto and de Jong recognize their role as politicized, social commentators.

The song “Be Good to Them Always,” demonstrates the point. The lyrics are, “I can hear a collective rumbling in America/ I’ve lost my house, you’ve lost your house/ I don’t suppose it matters which way we go/ This great society is going smash.”

Naturally, when I heard this song for the first time in Winter 2008, I assumed it was new – composed and recorded after the big bust. In fact, it is from the album “Lost and Safe,” released in 2005. I then, ahistorically, thought of the lyrics as eerily prescient. But even this view is befuddled. The lyrics are sung in concert with dialogue samples from the-devil-knows-when. Ergo, the samples and thus the song had no intended connection to today’s economic ills. They can't have. And yet, the song is both relevant and timely.

The genius of The Books consists of uniting disparate samples, re-casting them, and embedding them in a new context. Their method would be analogous to that of the antiques collector but for their general agnosticism toward origin. Jean-Luc Godard was supposed to have said it: "It's not where you take things from--It's where you take them to." The Books strive more to create a new and stimulating combinatory artifacts than to comment on the understanding of the past, or present, or future.

Sitting in Cornell Cinema, all senses attuned, I found my brain clouded by thoughts – unfortunate distractions, which interjected themselves between me and the performance. The intellectual and social components kept cropping up, forcing me to translate my experience into language. What did I really think? What was I feeling? What was I going to say to my friends during the unavoidable post-show break-down?

I couldn’t escape these thoughts, and yet I kept reflecting that the kaleidoscopic performance was beyond words; that words were woefully inadequate. I finally abandoned the intellectual exercise, and yielded to the music, the videos, the faces of the performers, the furious pumping of de Jong’s leg keeping beat. I let the full range of emotions overmaster me, and decided that if talk was called for later, I'd recall, ruminate, craft some response.

But when it came time to dissect the show, walking back to the car in the rain, murmurs of wonder and appreciation were forthcoming, but there was surprisingly little to say. The Books had said it all for us.

-Brad Turner, of Brad and the Unbounded One, Wednesdays 9-11pm on WERW
Originally 3 April 2012, WERE Blog