We last encountered Mary Kouyoumdjian with 2 Suitcases, which told the story of a couple fleeing the Lebanese Civil War. The subject is greatly expanded on WITNESS, which pairs the composer with Kronos Quartet. We consider this a major work: startlingly relevant, meticulously researched and eloquently presented. The emotional difficulty of listening is offset by the album’s stark, immediate beauty.
The suite contains four compositions: two shorter instrumentals and two longer multi-source pieces. “Groung (Crane)” eases the listener gently into the project, with melancholic tones and a sense of deep, abiding loss. Those familiar with the subject matter – the Lebanese Civil War and Armenian genocide – will already be drawing parallels to today’s crisis, which has only worsened in recent weeks with proclamations of eternal occupation and the resettling of residents. With so many lost, forever unable to tell their stories, the need for narration has never been so great. On this album, sorrow descends like a cloud before the first word is spoken.
“Bombs of Beirut” is broken into three sections: “Before the War,” “The War” and “After the War.” An even greater sadness arrives with the thought that there is no after the war; there is only war. The reminiscences of Kouyoumdjian’s family decorate the aisles. “You were free to go anywhere, anytime,” recalls one wistful narrator. “I remember my neighbors, I remember every room in our house, the backyard, the chickens,” Some of those who fled were inundated from the tragedy by parents who protected them, while others were plunged into “the darkest night.” Kronos Quartet surrounds the narrators with dense thickets of swirling sound: dramatic, foreboding, occasionally violent. The tension builds to a nearly-unbearable level until, in a ferocious segment, it is bisected by a barrage of falling bombs. This unrelenting field recording gives only a small indication of the real fear and trembling. Even when the music begins to seep back in, the listener, like the citizen, remains on edge.
“I Haven’t the Words” has no words, because what is one to say when faced with such atrocities? Only music and perhaps poetry can capture such impossible emotions. Instead, there is respect, reverence, an appropriate weight. The narrators return in the four-part “Silent Cranes,” which is highlighted by Armenak Shah Muradian’s heartrending rendition of “Groung.” The lyrics are a plea for news from one’s homeland, the tone one of prescient sorrow. The voice sounds abraded, as if recorded on a wax cylinder, traveling speaker to speaker like a nomad. Behind Muradian, the quartet grows increasingly agitated. There are more horrors to come, horror upon horror, until one’s heart is overwhelmed.
“What can the quartet offer in response to this nightmare?” writes Atom Egoyan in his poignant liner notes. “Harmony. Dissonance. Movement. Rhythmic structure.” With the greatest respect for the Armenian filmmaker, we say not enough. Nothing is enough. As much as one tries, as hard as one works, as great as one’s intentions, there is no way to put a tidy bow on the album, or to let a little light shine in. Not today, when history has repeated, when all is rubble, when the response of one world leader is to raze any remaining structures and turn the area into a retail center. Sorrow is a reasonable reaction; so is indignation.
Kouyoumdjian and Kronos Quartet have created an essential, unflinching work that is almost too much to bear. We suggest allowing the first track to play again after the last, providing the room the heart needs for reflection, the absence of words speaking again to the soul, bearing witness. (Richard Allen)
Available here