Tracie Morris (Mass MoCA, 3/24/01)
By Seth Rogovoy

(NORTH ADAMS, Mass., March 25, 2001) -Performance poet Tracie Morris took the risky road at the outset of her show at Mass MoCA on Saturday night when by way of introduction she said, "We're going to say a lot of things. You might like some; you might not like others. We're going to say them anyway."

It was a strategic gamble to begin her show that way, immediately distancing herself from her audience by putting them on notice. The gamble might have paid off had Morris then proceeded to engage her audience or build a rapport with them, but that wasn't part of the program. Not that Morris utterly lacked engagement or rapport. She did engage the members of her four-piece band and exercised her rapport with the musicians throughout the course of her 90-minute, high-tech poetry reading.

If listeners were left to feel like they were eavesdropping on a private party, so be it. At least that seemed to be the regal pose that Morris struck in her cold, intimidating and ultimately aloof performance. Not that Morris's reading was without its moments of connection with the audience. Some of her more performance-oriented pieces, chant-like bits which skirted the line between jazz singing and yodeling, were listener-friendly, and she was a skillful vocalist mimicking the sounds of hip-hop scratching and mixing.

But most of Morris's more lyric-oriented pieces were obscured by their own shapelessness and the shapelessness of the experimental, electronic soundscapes that her band, Sonic Synthesis 2, provided for them. On paper, it was an idea that should have worked. Blend Morris's race- and urban-conscious spoken-word raps with cutting-edge electronica, much of it sampled and looped and computer generated, some of it played live on electric bass and steel pan.

But for the most part, the elements failed to blend or cohere. The noise got in the way of the words, or the words failed to ignite. Morris came close a few times to connecting the dots. A poem about the "great migration" began with an apt, blues-boogie riff by guitarist and bandleader Marvin J. Sewell, but it never really went anywhere beyond that.

A "New York poem" invoked images of police brutality and soul food over a harsh, industrial soundtrack, and a number about black hairstyles was colored by a steel pan solo by Lyndon Achee, lending it a Caribbean flavor.

But much of whatever warmth Morris put forth was dissipated on her bandmates, with her self-referential, self-indulgent and at times even self-acknowledged "in-jokes" that came at the audience's expense. We were left watching Morris and her bandmates, including computer operator Val Jeantry and bassist Doug Wimbish, having a great time with each other. How nice of them to share it with us. Next time, they needn't bother invite an audience. They could just get together amongst themselves and do the same thing. They'd probably hardly notice we weren't there.

[This review originally appeared in the Berkshire Eagle on March 28, 2001. Copyright Seth Rogovoy 2001. All rights reserved.]