Most concerts don’t begin with a whiskey tasting. But it’s not a bad publicity strategy, as it’s well known that tipsy people love music, and that medieval chant sounds better when slightly buzzed.
Most concerts also don’t take place in a graveyard. At the reception to “Daisy Press sings Hildegard von Bingen” at Green-Wood Cemetery on Thursday, Sept. 8 at 6 p.m., concertgoers in strange garb milled about sipping thimblefuls of peated whiskey, mezcal, and moonshine.
“Hilde,” as Daisy Press calls her, was a 12th-century Benedictine nun, composer, and mystic. Daisy is singer-in-residence at House of Yes, a venue and nightclub in Bushwick. The concert, which cost $80 to attend, was part of “Death of Classical,” a series curated by Andrew Ousley.
The dress code called for “cemetery casual-chic.” But “casual” is relative. Think black lipstick, fishnet tights, corsets. One incredibly cool person with orange hair sported nipple tassels under a translucent top. The group, diverse in age, gave less “classical concert” than “punk rock funeral.”
After about an hour, coinciding with sunset, we were led through the cemetery to the catacombs. Half went on foot, half opted for trolley. Dappled light fell over the tombstones carved with names familiar and unfamiliar.
The entrance to the catacombs was marked by a wrought-iron gate. As we walked slowly through the candlelit tunnel, the air grew quiet and cold.
The walls of the catacombs, normally chalk-white, were bathed in neon purple and orange light. The chairs were arranged in two columns, like pews. In an antechamber, lit hot pink, two sheets of Hildegard’s music were pasted at eye level.
Daisy came out in a flowing blue dress, ribbons of fabric wrapped, vine-like, around her ankles. Save the tattoos climbing up her arms, she could have been the subject of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Before her, a table laid with singing bowls of various sizes, like a musical apothecary.
Then, a single note. It came from the bowl, which Daisy rubbed like the rim of a glass.
The otherworldly sound, echoing through the crypt, was soon joined by Daisy’s crystalline voice. A minor second full of tension. Finally, the words “Fauvus Distillans.”
The resonant space filled with different textures as Daisy added harmonium and struck the bowls with mallets. I watched, entranced, as she walked over to an alcove and, tickling the windchimes that hung there, sang “Karitas Habundat.”
Daisy walked barefoot down the aisle, reciting, with each dusty step, the word “stella.” Once in the pink antechamber, she sang the remainder of “Clarissima Mater,” just out of sight and slightly muted. On her way back, she stopped right next to me singing “alleluia.”
In a magical moment, Daisy let the harmonium fade and closed the cover. Then, an eerie sound, as she waved an instrument over her head. (I’ve since learned this is called a “whirly tube,” somewhat ruining the mystique.) This vampiric call formed the backdrop for “Spiritui Sancto.”
In “Ave Maria,” Daisy’s voice ranged from microtonal melismas to full operatic vibrato. One could especially hear the influence of Hindustani ragas on her interpretation.
At the crescendo, a pom-pom sized mouse scampered through the audience, eliciting a wave of cries as people clutched their bags and lifted their feet. It couldn’t have been more perfect.
There was no encore. It would have felt anticlimactic. Instead, at the end, Daisy thanked the spirit of Hilde. She also thanked the audience for joining her on “Hildegard’s Spaceship Temple.”
We arose and filed out of the catacombs — eyes adjusting, struggling to regain our earthly legs — as we realized that day had turned to night.
Thank you for your beautiful writing!